


Skye

by Saint Mia Wallace (SaintMiaWallace)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dead Harry, Drama, F/M, Isolation, Post-War, Redemption, Romance, Sick Draco, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintMiaWallace/pseuds/Saint%20Mia%20Wallace
Summary: Post War; both Harry and Voldemort have fallen. Many Muggle-borns have gone into hiding, including Hermione and her family. In the ashes of the old world, she rebuilds with a broken Draco Malfoy.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Hermione had been daydreaming for quite some time when her mother called for her to come back into the house for dinner. It only pulled her half out of her reverie. She really had no desire to return inside, not until she could feel the cold start to make her bones ache, anyway. She stared ahead over the white capped water, at the dark outline of the islands scattered alongside the mainland, and wondered for the millionth time where Ron was.

She looked down at her hands. They were white, a little bony. Not too skinny, but getting there. She and her parents had been eating well, but they all knew without saying it aloud that food was getting more and more difficult to come by. The brunette squeezed her fingers into tight fists and could feel the stiffness there; the cold was beginning to settle in. The wards around the cottage wouldn’t allow the unrelenting coastal winds to touch her on that open porch, but she could still feel the cold of mid Autumn in the highlands.

“Mione?”

The young girl turned to see her mother’s pale but smiling face peering round the door at her. Was it just Hermione, or did her mother look older these days? Had confinement aged her so?

“Supper soon, darling.”

Hermione let her eyes fall back to her lap, onto her hands, still pale and probably on the edge of a little too thin. Was she starting to age prematurely too?

"Thanks, Mum."

She stood with a heavy sigh and automatically patted her pocket; her wand was there, as it always was. Her eyes scanned the fields sloping down from the cottage again, across the rocks and over the dark water reaching to the darker horizon. Not a soul to be seen. No twinkling lights, no boats. She very rarely saw anyone all the way out in those parts, which was sort of the point, really. Hermione figured it wouldn't matter, even if she did see the random stranger. With all the magical wards surrounding the house, they wouldn't be able to see her.

A deep breath, one filled with cold, salt air and the faint stink of low tide, and Hermione was back in the warmth and light of the house. Dad was in the sitting room reading and Mum was busying herself over warming Sunday's roast and frying up some root vegetables. Hermione usually helped, but she'd felt tired all that day, anticipating her monthlies to come any day now, and as she got older, it generally made her feel worse each month.

The brunette settled into a chair at the dining room table and stared at the ugly portrait of Great Aunt Lavinia, circa 1930 or so. It was her cottage that the three Grangers were holed up in nowadays, a four bedroom, cozy little place in a remote corner of the Isle of Skye. She was rich and as Muggle as they come, and when Hermione became desperate for a place to hide her family, this place seemed her best option. And for three long years, she and her mother and father had been living there, all alone, living in near total isolation.

"Set the table, darling?" asked her mother. Hermione nodded, giving Lavinia's portrait a narrow look before taking a handful of plates and fetching up silverware.

 _Why even bother?_ she found herself wondering.

Granger Senior was peering out into the back garden. "Too bad your pumpkins never took, 'Mione. Halloween is almost here. We could have carved one."

She didn't bother repressing an eye roll. "Pity; we'll disappoint all the trick-or-treaters."

Her mother gave her a look. "That's not necessary."

Hermione said nothing, only continued to lay out silverware and fold napkins. Her father was hovering in the doorway looking down at the floor. He was quiet, which Hermione hated. It meant he was about to ask a difficult question. "When are you going out again, Hermione? We could do with some news, you know."

She'd finished setting the table. Only three places, after all. Hermione sat down at her place and watched her mother fuss over Sunday's roast in the kitchen. "I don't know, dad. Soon, I suppose." She made to put her frizzy hair into a ponytail and cursed when she realized she'd lost her favorite scrunchie, the cute one with the red and white stripes. It'd been lost for a few months now and she kept forgetting.

"You don't know much."

"No."

"I don't mean to pressure you, you know that. It's just that we're terribly isolated here, and if we don't have to be here then—"

"Dad, I don't want to be stuck here anymore than you do, trust me." She crossed her arms and sighed. Her mother placed a plate of rolls on the table. Hermione snatched one up and began to butter it anxiously. "It's complicated. My best sources of information are the papers, and you know they only print what people want to read. If I could only find Ron; if only I knew if he were even still alive..." Her knife went clean through her roll and she grimaced.

The Battle of Hogwarts had been more or less a draw. Harry and Voldemort were both killed by their own counter curses, or so everyone assumed. They'd both disappeared. Ever since, both sides warred back and forth. People were killed, people disappeared, and when Death Eaters started outnumbering everyone else and Muggles were targeted, Hermione took no chances. She packed up her parents and slipped under the radar, and had been there ever since.

Dad was still leaning against her doorframe looking at her. She smiled weakly, thinking for the millionth time that maybe she hadn't made the right call after all, that maybe old Voldy and his devoted Death Eaters didn't give two shits about her or her parents, and she'd been hiding out in the middle of nowhere in Scotland for three bloody years for no damn reason...

She shook her head. "I'll sneak into the city tomorrow, perhaps. Get some papers, some supplies. I'll find out what I can find out. The point is, maybe I was high on You-Know-Who's hit list and maybe I wasn't, but I surely didn't want to find out the hard way, right?"

Her father blinked, confused. "Eh, sure love."

"Hungry, all?" Mum sang as she waltzed into the dining room with the pot of roast and vegetables. Hermione, putting on a smile that she did not feel in her heart, stood to help her mother get situated. Today was Tuesday, so Sunday’s leftovers were still plenty delicious, just as they had been last week, and the week prior. In all the weeks prior. Three goddamn years worth of Sunday roasts and nagging fathers and concerned mothers. Hermione smoothed the tablecloth with her hands and wondered, not for the first time, whether next Sunday’s roast ought not just burn the cottage down by 'accident'.

"Dad? Please get a dish for gravy?" she asked sweetly.

"'Course," he said. Fetching a gravy boat, Granger Senior smiled and said, "'Mione may make a city run tomorrow, darling. Why don't you make a small list tonight of things you may need?"

Mrs. Granger was spooning potatoes onto her plate. "I could do with some night cream."

"If you get your old man some aftershave, I'd be forever grateful. It never seems to last, that stuff."

"You could always let your beard out," winked Mrs. Granger.

"I'll get as much as I can fit in a small bag, Dad, but you know I can only carry so m—"

A loud CRACK from outside the house startled them all. Granger senior dropped his teacup and it crashed to the floor. Hermione’s mother groaned aloud. “Oh no, I hope that’s not another one of my potted plants. That’ll be the second one that fell over and broke this week—“ She paused when a loud thump followed the sound. It came from their porch.

“No,” Hermione breathed, grabbing for her wand. “It’s not your plants, Mum.” She rushed to the window, trying to peer through the curtains at their open porch. It was full dark outside and, though the wards kept out the wind, they somehow allowed the mists to creep in, allowing her to see very little.

“Oh, I'm afraid now,” she heard her mother whisper. Father wasn't far behind with soothing words. Hermione heard more thumps from the porch. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Despite the powerful spells she’d secured their house with, Hermione felt anxious. Anyone could be out there. She opened the front door a crack. Nothing happened. It definitely was dark, now. There were torches on the front porch that cast some light, but it wasn't much. Another scuffling sound and thump made her squeak in fright. Her wand slipped in her hand and she realized she was bleeding. Must have cut herself slicing her roast when she was frightened by the apparation sound.

Because she had no doubt that that sound had been someone Apparating onto the porch.

There, sprawled over the steps, was a dark figure. The stocky build and long legs revealed it to belong to a man. She could see him struggling up the steps. Or was he trying to go down them? She couldn’t be sure.

The man jerked when the heavy front door squealed on its old, salt-rusted hinges.. Hermione blinked at him. She could see torn clothes, a shattered wand clutched in his white-knuckled fists, and a mass of filthy red hair. Her hands flew to her face. “Ron!?”

“Ronald!?” Her mother nearly flew out the door, but fear kept her just inside the threshold. “It can't be. Can it truly be?”

“Hermione, how did he get here if you've hidden us from the rest of the world?” her father demanded in a low and frightened voice.

Hermione rushed to the man’s side. “Ron, what’s wrong? What happened?” She took in the tattered clothes. They were torn in many places, as if he’d been fighting fiercely with someone. She ignored the blood that was smeared on the stony surface of the old porch, thinking at first that it was her own. She pulled at his arm, trying to turn him over. He growled and pushed her away, rolling onto his side.

“My god, what's happened to the poor fellow?” Granger Senior’s fear seemed to have left him as he joined his daughter in kneeling beside the broken and bleeding boy lying on their step. He reached out with shaking hands to soothe him. “We must get him to talk as soon as he's able. We must get information from him!”

“Dad!” Hermione hissed. “He looks like he's been beaten half to death! Making him ‘talk’ may have been why!” She smoothed her hands through his matted hair. “Ronald, Ronald speak to me… what happened?” When she pulled her hands away, she was startled to see that his hair color had come off on them. Great smears of clotted, red color. She looked in horror at his head and continued to run her fingers through it. As she smoothed the strands, more color came off, revealed paler and paler hair. Finally, the man turned. She gave an astonished cry. Stormy gray eyes stared up at hers, filled with the utmost contempt and loathing. His _blond_ hair was now apparent. “ _Malfoy_?”

Hermione was paralyzed with confusion. Yes, this was Draco Malfoy lying before her. His clothes were torn and bloodied, as was his hair. It was positively soaked in blood. No wonder she’d thought him a redhead. Blood was smeared across his face. His nose appeared to be broken, giving the skin around it an ugly purple and yellow hue. One of his eyes appeared to be bleeding as well. She whimpered when he squeezed them shut and grunted again. More blood seeped from his twisted mouth.

“Hurry,” she said to her parents. “Hurry, we have to get him inside. He’s badly hurt—“

“Step aside.” Her father pushed her out of the way and scooped Malfoy up in one swoop. Malfoy wasn’t very big for a boy, had never grown as tall as Harry or Ron, and her father was a big man. He carried the broken boy inside and slammed the door behind him.

“You know this boy, Mione?” her mother asked. She was flitting around her husband, who stalked through the halls with the limp Slytherin in his arms, wringing her hands and fretting. “Goodness me, look at him, just look at him—“

“This is Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said. “He was in my year at Hogwarts, though in a different house.” She, too, was dancing worriedly around her father. She saw that Malfoy was trailing blood on the floor and she vanished it with jerky waves of her wand.

“Oh, the carpet,” her mother moaned when Malfoy gave a particularly nasty cough and sent bloody spittle flying.

“Mum!”

“Both of you, keep quiet!” her father snapped. He tore up the stairs. “We need to get him patched up.”

Hermione continued to make squealing, whimpering sounds in her throat. They grew louder when she saw how her father’s shirt was getting more and more soaked in Malfoy’s blood. Soon, her father had kicked open the door to one of the spare bedrooms and, as gingerly as he could, laid Malfoy on the bed. The injured boy’s face contorted in pain, but he was silent. He rolled over to his side again and bit back his cries of pain.

Hermione could only stand transfixed in the doorway. Her parents weren’t doctors, they were dentists. What could they do to help? Malfoy looked positively wretched. She watched her father push him onto his back and start removing his garments. “Go get some bandages and rags. And some peroxide—maybe we can just clean him up a bit before you take him to a hospital.”

Her mother dashed from the room. “Dad,” Hermione said quietly, “I don’t think I’ll be able to bring him anywhere.”

He continued to tear away at Malfoy’s shredded clothes, ignoring the boy’s weak attempts to push him off. “What do you mean? Of course he has to go to the hospital, he’s hurt badly.“

“No, no I can’t go anywhere with him. He shouldn’t even be here…” She wrung her hands anxiously. “Merlin, the blood!”

“What are you talking about, Hermione? Oh—come here, will you? Put pressure on this cut!” She complied, quite forgetting just how vile and nasty she remembered the boy to be.

“He’s a Dark Wizard, Dad. The son of a wanted Death Eater! Probably one of the most wanted men in all of Wizarding England! I can’t bring him anywhere, the authorizes will be alerted for sure...“ Malfoy’s eyes cracked open at that statement. He glared at Hermione, still choking back growls and moans of pain. He lashed out at Hermione’s father.

“Listen, son, I’m only trying to help!” Malfoy continued to struggle. One of his feet kicked Hermione in the side.

“Malfoy, stop!” she cried. “Merlin, what happened to you? What are you doing here?” She began to weep piteously. “What’s going on?” Her father ripped Malfoy’s sleeves away and Hermione screamed. His left forearm appeared to have a large chunk of skin carved out of it. The Dark Mark…

Someone had cut it wholly out of his arm.

Her mother returned to the room, arms loaded with medical supplies. She pushed Hermione aside. “Go on, Mione, get out of here. Let us work.” She started helping her husband disrobe the sweating, writhing boy beneath her. Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but gasped and drew back, struggling against cries of pain.

Hermione backed into the corner and continued to sob. Her hands were stained with his blood and she wiped them off on her jeans. “But Mum—“

“Go!” her parents shouted in unison. Hermione staggered from the room and collapsed in the hall outside. Her hands were still filthy and bloodied. She cried into them and wiped them on her pants, her shirt… anything to get the horrid stains off.

She could feel a dull horror slowly stealing over her like a frost. Hermione hadn't felt that truly afraid for quite some time, not since they went into hiding. If Malfoy was able to find her, then surely others would be able to. How in the world had he been able to break through her wards? They weren't all powerful, but they were certainly enough to repel a lone wizard. And why Malfoy!?

Damn, she knew so _little_ of what he’d been up to in recent years. She knew that Lucius had been imprisoned for some time in Azkaban, but had broken out after Harry’s death. She knew that he was back in the ranks of the Death Eaters, probably trailing along at Voldemort’s side. She had no doubt his son had been doing the same. The Death Eater’s crimes were famous even in the Muggle world. Petrified, she wondered whether or not he had been followed by whoever had hurt him so.

Sniffling and sobbing, Hermione rose to her feet and retreated to her own room. It was next to the guest bedroom. She collapsed on the bed, listening to the sounds of struggle through the walls. Every once in awhile, she heard Malfoy give a particularly loud gasp of pain. Her parents’ frantic murmurs could be heard as well.

She ignored the pounding of her heart. What would this mean for them? He absolutely could not stay there. He would be found by whoever was tracking him and their security would be forfeit. She’d have to come up with a plan to force her parents into hiding, since they likely wouldn’t go willingly. And what of her? She was in just as much danger.

 _Think, Hermione,_ she told herself, forcing her breathing to slow. _Think of a logical way out of this. Obviously, nothing can be done until he’s properly stabilized. After that… well, perhaps it would be best to erase his memories and dump him somewhere. He'll live_.

Hermione forced herself into a state of quiet, meditative silence, trying her best to remain calm and composed. Eventually, this caused her to fall into a state of restless half-sleep, one in which she could still hear stifled cries of pain and the occasional rip of bandages. She imagined that she could still see him writhing in pain, resolutely refusing to utter a single sound that would betray his agony. But she saw the blood in his mouth and his hair, she saw the deep gashes all over his chest and arms. The hole that had been sliced out of his arm made her stomach turn. In her half-sleep, she turned and retched.

Hands on her shoulders made her sit up in cold, stark awareness. “Mione,” her mother whispered. “Come see him. We’ve done all we can; now he needs magical healing.”

Hermione stumbled from the bed. What could she do? She wasn’t trained in healing magic. And Merlin, he’d lost so much blood…

He was bandaged from head to toe, courtesy of her parents. He looked to be slipping in and out of consciousness, growling quietly and grimacing every once in awhile. Maybe he had internal injuries, as well. Her father was standing beside him, slapping him lightly on the cheeks every now and then to keep him awake. “He might have a concussion,” he said when Hermione scolded him.

She crept forward, hoping he wouldn’t open his eyes and give her filthy looks again. Just like she remembered, just like he used to be. Always glaring hatefully at her, as if she were beneath him. The look he’d given her on the porch was proof of that. She reached out to touch the bandages across his chest. “He’s still bleeding.”

“That's why we need you. Cast some spells over him to make it stop.”

Hermione withdrew, looking pale. “I don’t know many…”

As she suspected, she hadn’t been much help. Learned though she was in charms and potions, she’d never been properly trained in complex healing magic. Sure, she could vanish his shallow scratches, even knit a few of them together if they were small enough. But his entire body was covered in deep gashes, all of which festered horribly. They were angry, raw and green-tinged. Most of them look as if they’d been inflicted by Dark Magic; in particular, the Sectumsempra curse. She wouldn’t be able to heal those. They’d need more bandages too; Malfoy was already starting to bleed through the new ones.

“Tomorrow,” she said fretfully, trying to ignore the way Malfoy shrank away from her touch. “Tomorrow, I’ll try to go to the city. Perhaps a wizarding one. I’ll need…ingredients, things I can’t buy in Muggle shops. I can make a few potions, maybe an elixir or two… they might be able to help. I was—pretty good in Potions.”

Her mother was eyeing him worriedly. “Maybe we should give him something for the pain? It would help him sleep, at any rate.”

“He’s a wizard, Mum. He’ll be impervious to Muggle medicine. I keep an elixir or two in my bathroom…” She left the room to search around for any spare vials of potion. She always kept a few stocked in her cabinet for her nasty cramping every month. She grabbed a vial and swore, cursing Malfoy for being such a damn inconvenience. She was due to start any day now, and with him dipping into her stash too, she’d just have to live with the cramps.

She watched with a kind of sick pleasure as her mother forced the contents of the vial down Malfoy’s throat. He struggled against her and tried to spit the liquid out, but her father stepped in and held his nose and mouth shut. Eventually, he swallowed.

Shaking, Hermione stepped forward to push Malfoy back against the sheets. “Don’t struggle against us, you little toerag. You came here of all places for help, so help us help you!” He grimaced and glared at her before he closed his eyes and laid back against the pillows. They were filthy from his blood and sweat. Hermione whispered “Tergio,” in an attempt to clean them. In her weary state, it didn’t help much.

“Leave him to rest for now,” her mother said softly from her side. “There’s no use in interrogating him. We’ll talk to him in the morning.”

Her parents slipped quietly from the room, leaving Hermione standing beside the bed. Malfoy had turned resolutely away from her and remained silent. His labored breathing was the only sound to be heard in the room. “Malfoy,” she whispered. “At least tell me why you’re here.” He said nothing. She stood there for some time, watching the way his chest rose and fell in an alarming, jerky sort of way. She could hear him trying to muffle low growls of pain in his throat. He didn’t look at her.

_Doesn't this twat realize he's the first person we've spoken to in ages?_

She sighed and left the bedside. “You’d better have a good explanation for this in the morning.”

~*~

Hermione slept horribly that night. She woke up with a start and dashed into the guest bedroom more times than she could count, either because she’d dreamt that it had all been a horrible nightmare, that no one had ever appeared on their porch broken and bleeding under pain of curses, or because she’d imagined that Malfoy had been screaming in pain in the next room. Once, right before the sun rose, she awoke in terror because she’d dreamt that a bleeding, bandaged Draco Malfoy had been standing next to her bed with his wand pointed at her throat.

Finally, she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke for the last time, sunlight was pouring through her open window. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, feeling shaky and cold. What time was it?

She slipped from the bed and wrapped herself in a cloak—Fall was on the way out and Winter almost upon Scotland. Though the cottage was cozy and warm enough, the wet cold made itself known through the stone floors and occasional drafts. Hermione crept down the hall and peered into the guest bedroom. Her spirits sagged. There, lying in the bed, was Malfoy. Her mother was sitting at his side, sponging at his face and arms with a wet washcloth. Hermione sighed.

“Mione,” said her mother, looking up when the floorboards beneath Hermione’s feet creaked, betraying her presence. “Darling, go and fetch me a fresh cloth, please. And a clean bowl of warm water.”

Hermione eyed the figure of Malfoy. He still looked pale and wretched. His bandages were bloody; they’d need to be changed again. She nodded and gathered the necessary items. On her way back up the stairs, she thought, _He could die. What if he dies here?_

“Thank you, dear,” her mother sighed. Hermione took away the bowl of dirty, pinkish water and the bloodied rag.

“Mum… I’ll set out soon for the city. There are things that I can buy for him there that might help.”

“Do be careful,” she answered distractedly. She began to gently smooth the fresh rag over Malfoy’s long, dirty hair. Hermione could tell that he was awake, as he would jerk every once in awhile when her mother accidentally brushed against a wound, but his eyes were closed. He refused to look at them.

Hermione took in the sight of her mother. It would have been almost sweet, watching her gently soothing Malfoy’s bloody forehead with a warm washcloth, if it hadn’t been Malfoy’s forehead she was mopping. Images from her past filled Hermione’s head—Malfoy extending his hand to shake Harry’s on the train, Malfoy dressed in a black cloak, pretending to be a Dementor, Malfoy leering at them in Potion’s class…

“So,” her mother began, “you know this boy well?”

Hermione stifled a sneer. “Not really. We went to school together for many years, but… we were never friends.”

“I see.” Malfoy gave a start when the washrag brushed over a wound hidden by his hair, and her mother whispered, “There there…”

“I’ll do that,” said her father from the doorway. Hermione and her mother turned round. Granger senior was standing in a pair of loose pajamas, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper (old) in the other. “I’ll clean him up in a bit. Throw him in our bathtub, you know.”

Hermione nodded. The master bedroom of the Skye cottage had a spacious bathroom with an old claw foot style tub. Malfoy would fit nicely into it. “Perhaps wait until this evening?” Hermione suggested. “I’m about to go buy the potions and simples he’ll need. I can get some medicinal salts for the bathwater.”

Granger Senior scratched his chin. “I think we have a few of those… soothing salts, you know, for his pain more than anything else. We also have some oatmeal bath still in the cupboard from when you had chickenpox ages ago.”

“Dad… chickenpox and cursed wounds are two totally different things.”

He shrugged. “I’ll draw the bath now.” They looked at Malfoy and were surprised to see that he was staring at them all with wide eyes.

Hermione chuckled softly. No doubt he had been horrified to hear things like ‘oatmeal bath’ and ‘chicken pox.’ She also guessed that he didn’t particularly like the idea of being bathed by her father. .

“Don’t worry,” her mother said soothingly, “we’ll leave the room for it. Give you your privacy and all.”

“Urgh,” Hermione muttered. “Gladly.”

Her mother sat back in her chair and wiped at her brow. “I’m going to go see if I can’t throw something together for him to eat. Soup, probably, and maybe a bit of dry toast.” She rubbed his forehead, causing him to scowl. “He looks as if he needs to eat. Here.” She dropped the wet washcloth into Hermione’s hand. “Take over for me.”

“But—“ Hermione protested. Her mother didn’t listen. She rose from the chair and left the room, followed by her father.

Hermione stared at Malfoy’s face for a long time, listening to the water running through the old pipes above her head, readying a warm bath for their new ward. Forces were warring within her, forces she understood well, in a logical way, yet struggled with on an emotional level. The Gryffindor in her demanded that she care for this person who could not fend for himself, enemy or no. However, some dark part of her heart found it very hard to forgive seven years of snide remarks, of dirty looks, fights, being topped in certain classes and being called ‘Mudblood’ at every opportunity. Just the sound of his name, _Draco_ , was enough to send a chill across her and make her clench her teeth.

 _You must put those feelings aside, Hermione_ , said the better part of herself. _This man is dying, will absolutely die without your aid. Help him. It’s simply the right thing to do._

_And in times like these, right and wrong have never been so greatly magnified_. 

The brunette sighed and dipped the cloth into the clean basin of water. “Malfoy,” she began, taking her mother’s chair. “Will you tell me now why you’re here?”

She resumed Mrs. Granger’s cleaning of the bleeding boy’s hair. It was very long, nearly to his shoulders. Apparently, whatever he’d been doing in the last few years had not afforded him time to get a haircut, which rather surprised her. She’d always pictured Malfoy to be snobbish and vain.

He did not answer her question. “Come on, Malfoy,” she urged, getting angry again. “What happened to you? And how did you get past my wards, anyway?”

The young Death Eater still gave her no reply. Instead, he closed his eyes again and turned away from her. She could only shake her head. She wrung out the cloth, dipped it again into the steaming water, and smoothed it through his hair. It was clotted with dried, blackened blood, but also with what appeared to be dirt. What had he been doing?

He hissed and jerked away from her when she ran her washcloth over a cut hidden beneath his hair. She parted the bloody strands and saw a shallow gash just behind his ear. It looked ugly, but not nearly as bad as the wounds on his chest. Perhaps this was a normal wound. She eyed the similar cut over his eye. His eyebrow appeared to be sliced cleanly in half. It, too, looked mild enough to heal. Maybe it had been dealt by a knife.

“I’m leaving soon,” she told him, trying to ignore how angry she was becoming at his silence. “I’m going to go buy potion ingredients. I’ll do a bit of research before then to see what I’ll need… obviously essence of dittany, maybe some murtlap tentacles, a few painlessness potions. Blimey, I wish I had more Herbology books… it was never my favorite subject.” She pushed his hair aside to clean the dried blood and dirt from behind his ear. “Malfoy, you’ll need to look at me so I can clean the other side of you face and neck. Turn around.” He refused, and she scowled. “I said _turn around_.”

He remained still as stone. With a huff, Hermione withdrew to the other side of the bed. As she predicted, he turned his head the opposite way in a refusal to look at her. This afforded her the access she needed to his neck and cheeks. “Bloody idiot,” she hissed. “You’re damn lucky that you chose to apparate here, of all places. My parents are kind people. Merlin, my Mum was practically cuddling you. Very maternal, she is, as you can see.” She blinked. “I’m willing to bet that this is the first time a human has ever cared for you in such a way. Don’t house elves do this kind of thing in Wizard homes?” He didn’t answer. “Well, when she comes back, you’d better eat whatever she gives you. I don’t want to have to force you to be compliant.” She patted her wand, which was stowed in her pocket. “Honestly, fighting us when you came to us for help…”

Malfoy growled low in his throat. Hermione pulled away, almost apologizing for running the cloth over another wound of his. His eyes stayed resolutely shut and, even though he was silent, at least he was allowing her to do what she needed to do. “This is ridiculous,” she said under her breath. “We’ve taken you into our home, dressed your wounds…we’re about to feed and bathe you for Merlin’s sake. The least you could do is tell us why. At least do us that honor.” Still, he gave her no answer. Fuming silently, Hermione wiped at his cheeks and neck with the tip of the warm cloth. “Three years. That's how long we've been living here. Did you know? Just me and mum and good ole dad. Just us. It's a very isolated place. No neighbors. No friends. No one to talk to. Just one another. So now we have you; our first visitor who refuses to talk to us. How lovely.” She resisted the urge to thump him.

"Why don't you tell me how you found me and my family. Hmm? Care to share with the class? How did you even know where to look?"

Silence.

"I'll get that much out of you before this is over with. You can bet on that, Malfoy." She scowled at him. “Can you even imagine how it feels to see your face? A face that isn't one of the two tired old faces I've been staring at day in and day out for bloody-damn-ever, and yet of all the faces in the world, it has to be yours…” When she looked at his eyes, she paused and pulled away. They were still squeezed tightly shut and now, with the sunlight falling over his face, she could see that they were glittering with tears.

 

 

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Author's Notes:

None, really. I just love Dramione. Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. <3 Updates will come.


	2. Chapter 2

After tea time, Hermione borrowed her dad’s sitting room so she could formulate her plan to travel abroad for the day. She laid out a map of the highlands over a marble table and placed heavy figurines on the corners to keep it flat. Inverness was her best bet. It was where she nearly always went. It was a big enough city to get lost in, big enough not to be recognized and to have all the things they'd need, and big enough not to stand out as an outsider. She'd made the trip enough times before with few hiccups, but that didn't make it any easier to prepare to leave. Leaving her folks to their own devices, with little protection, and with a known Dark Wizard to boot (albeit a pretty well worked-over one) made her stomach flutter uncomfortably.

Drat.

She unfolded a piece of parchment and consulted its contents. Inverness would only be part of her journey that day. She would also have to make a stop in a wizarding town; a town big enough for her to poke around in and not be noticed as someone not local. Luckily, Hermione had the presence of mind to pack every last book she owned before she went on the lam, including all of her old schoolbooks. A textbook on magical geography would come in particularly handy.

She consulted a chapter of wizarding England, then touched her wand to the map laid out before her. From its tip flowed a golden light; it followed select roads and illuminated select small towns, and certain parts of select cities.

“There we are,” she said aloud.

Her father was behind her, watching. “Will you try Portree, then? It’s so close.”

“That’s precisely why I will _not_ try it,” replied Hermione. “If I’m spotted, I don’t want anyone poking around anywhere near looking for me or mine. Certainly not now,” she added, nodding in the direction of Draco’s room.

She glanced down at her watch, which read 2:15. Her bag was ready, she had her coat, Draco was sleeping. She reached up to put her frizzy, brown locks up and swore when she realized, yet again, that she’d lost her only hair tie. Hermione made a mental note to purchase a pack of them. “I suppose I’m ready,” she said determinedly.

“Careful, love,” her father said. He smiled down at her. “Mum is upstairs with the boy. She sends her well wishes.” He leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “You’ve always been cautious in the past, so I trust you to be so today. Do what you can and be swift.”

“Yes, Dad.” Hermione took his hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

Outside, the sky was cloudy and the air was cool and crisp. She hugged her coat tightly around her and knew it would be chilly in Inverness. Quickly, Hermione cast what few disguising charms she knew upon herself, enlarging her nose and changing her eye color and various other things that would make her unrecognizable to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely at her. She pulled a wool hat down to her eyes and, with a deep breath, Disapparated off the old, crumbling porch.

Inverness was the easy part. Buying things at the market, vegetables and canned goods and meats and such, was no problem. She shrank them when no one was looking and placed them gingerly in her bag. Hermione also made it a point to stop in an apothecary for toiletries, making sure to stock up on bandages and medicinal salts for the bath. She even nicked quite a few more rolls of bandages when the coast was clear. That part made her feel rather bad, but her parents’ supply of money was limited, even though they were wealthy and had withdrawn quite a bit from the banks before they went on the lam.

The brunette paused on a busy street to purchase a breakfast roll and nibbled on it while she watched the news on a television playing through a shop window. Nothing really jumped out at her. In fact, it seemed relatively pleasant. No war stories, no kidnappings, no deaths. She hadn’t expected any less, of course. The current ministry wouldn’t have reported anything negative going on., even if the whole country were ablaze.

She strolled down the sidewalk and peered through another shop window at a row of mannequins draped in beautiful dresses. Their scarves and hats were very lovely. It’d been ages and ages since she’d last been shopping for herself, just for fun.

_No time for frivolity when you’re trying to survive…_

There were a lot of storefronts boarded up, many more than were closed the last time she had visited. How long had it been, anyway? Time had a way of getting away from her at that cottage. It seemed to be warped by the very magic that closed them in; it bled together and ran through the cracks of the old bricks like muddied water. And it did seem like there were fewer people about… but perhaps that was just her imagination? She didn’t dare allow herself to think that people were fleeing the cities for any dire reason. Any _dark_ reason.

There was a couple standing in the entryway of the next store. They looked very happy, pink-cheeked and sharing a brick of fudge, occasionally kissing and whispering sweet nothings to one another. Hermione watched them. It occurred to her that she was of an age where she should probably be courting a young fellow. Finishing university, thinking of marriage… but first, of course, she’d establish an excellent career working as a Muggle advocate. There was actually a special scrapbook behind her bed at her parent’s old house solely devoted to her “dream future,” a book she did not bring with her to the Skye cottage, and in it was pasted pictures of her dream flat, her dream car, her dream wedding, her dream job.

Hermione watched the woman’s pink lipstick smear on her lover’s neck and thought ‘No, no there were certainly no pictures of old cottages in that book, or of crumbling coastlines, foggy rocks, pale-haired wizards…’

Her watch beeped. “Damn.” She tossed her half-finished sweet roll in a bin and yanked her hat down her forehead. She’d lingered far too long in the real world. Well, how could she help it? Staring at her parents’ faces and the same four walls for years was making her feel as if she were dangerously close to madness. With one last backward glance to the kissing couple, Hermione Granger disappeared down the street and into the crowds.

~*~

Granger Senior Gave his wife a worried look. “He’s still bleeding,” he said.

Mrs. Granger nodded. “Do you get the feeling that perhaps they disliked one another at school?”

“Yes. I get that feeling.”

The mother reached forward to smooth Draco’s forehead. His brow furrowed slightly but otherwise he gave no indication that his sleep was disturbed. “I wonder why…”

“Children,” her husband merely shrugged.

“I believe he came from money,” she continued. Her fingers picked at the tattered hem of his shirt that sat folded in her lap. It was as clean as she could get it, torn and useless as it was. She could tell, though, that before it had been practically destroyed, it had been expertly tailored, and likely very expensive. “Have you felt his hands? They're quite soft. Lad’s never worked a day in his life.”

Granger Senior frowned and shifted his weight in the seat next to his wife. “I'd hate to see what they would have done to a poor man,” he said solemnly.

She grimaced. “We'll have to talk to her, won't we? He's so badly hurt. I don't think there's much more we can do for him.” She reached out and took her husband’s hand. “He simply has to return to the outside world. He needs real help.”

~*~

Hermione stopped to rest inside a small alley and leaned against its scummy, brick walls. The wizarding city she’d chosen was large and she’d been lost for over an hour looking for a bookstore that may or may not contain the literature she was looking for. The _darker_ stuff, as she so delicately put it to herself. It wasn’t easy. People raised eyebrows to that sort of things, and she wanted no eyebrows tilted in her direction. They just seemed on edge here, and not just because of the cold. Everyone had their heads down, hurrying to their destinations with grim looks on their faces. The brunette rubbed her cold hands together and wished she were back in the warmth of the Skye cottage, suffocating though it was.

How dare Malfoy come and disturb that placidity, unwanted and unneeded as it was? He had put them all in danger. She thought, of course, that she could remedy the situation easily by kicking Malfoy out into the streets on his pretty, pale arse, but the Gryffindor in her just couldn’t do it. Not when he was so badly hurt, not when he had come to her, of all people, for help. Two wrongs didn’t make a right, after all. Even though Malfoy had been nothing but horrible to her and all of her friends since the first day they’d met, it wouldn’t do to exact her revenge by leaving him to die, alone. It would only prove him right; that she was beneath him.

Well, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, Merlin knew…

She put her face in her hands. What was she going to do? What if he died? Then she’d have a dead dark wizard on her hands. And who, in the width and breadth of the wizarding world, would believe that he’d gone to the house of Hermione Granger, one of his sworn enemies, of his own free will, if they were to find out? No. They’d think she’d conspired to have him brought there and killed. And considering the current administration, no one would be willing to listen to any amount of reason on the subject.

She was simply backed into a corner. Hermione would have to find what she could find and heal him on her own as best she could, number one, and number two, she would have to get out of him how he’d found her. And what he planned to do once he was better. He had no wand, so perhaps she’d be able to keep him where she wanted him, for the time being.

The brunette gave a heavy sigh and emerged from the alley. Two streets over was a book shop, a seedier one than she was used to. It would surely have something she needed. Anything...

~*~

Once home, though exhausted, Hermione emptied her bag and enlarged its contents so that her parents to could stow the necessaries away (she waved away their requests for gossip and information) and dashed upstairs to dig up her old cauldron. She knew, somewhere, she had packed a spare potion ingredients kit, for emergencies. She meant to set up shop in father’s study, but he whined at her about it (“It’s my favorite reading place!”), so she set up her things in the corner of her bedroom. It would do as a temporary laboratory, anyway, since it was so close to his room. She shook her bag and emptied the handful of painlessness potions she’d bought. In her closet, she retrieved her old Potions books. She’d tabbed the pages for the necessary potions and medicines earlier that day.

In the next room, she could hear her mother fussing over Malfoy. Apparently, the boy was reluctant to eat anything served to him by Muggles; especially Muggles who were the parents of one of his old boyhood rivals. Eventually, Hermione had to go in there and threaten to jinx him. “What did I say earlier!?” she’d snapped at him. “Help us help you, you great prat! We’re not going to _poison_ you, for Merlin’s sake!”

As she was busy frantically slicing the murtlap tentacles that’d she’d stew for him, her father poked his head into her room. “What’s that?”

“It’s for his pain,” she said distractedly. “After this, I’ll make something that I hope will heal his wounds. If they haven’t been inflicted by dark magic, it should help.” She dumped the tentacles into her cauldron, which was already boiling over with a milky-white substance. “I think his injuries are worse than that, though. He flinches when you move him, and it’s not because of the cuts on his arms and chest. I think he’d got something wrong with his insides. I mean, obviously Phoenix Tears would be ideal in a situation like this, but there’s no way I could ever afford those, and I don’t happen to have any Phoenixes lying around…” She stirred her cauldron and checked the little flame burning beneath it. “I bought some pathocus roots, though… the sap may help, if we mix it with water and have him drink it. That _might_ help…”

Her father was looking at her with a confused expression. Hermione twitched her hand angrily at him. “I’m trying to concentrate, Dad, what is it?”

The man frowned. “He’s eaten,” he began, “and I think he’s trying to sleep now.” Hermione nodded absently. “He still hasn’t said anything to us. He refuses to tell us why he’s here, and what happened to him.”

Hermione frowned and finally stepped back from her work. “Not a word?”

“Not a one.”

She scoffed, tossing a handful of aloe leaves into the cauldron. “That’s not all that surprising. He always was a little snotty, ungrateful toerag. I’ll get him to talk later. Maybe, if we find out what happened to him, we can figure out what we need to do to properly heal him.”

Her father didn’t respond to that last, so after she gave her cauldron a few more stirs, she looked up at him. He was still frowning. “What?” she asked.

“Mione,” he began slowly, apparently giving his words careful consideration, “are you sure you shouldn't at least attempt to take him somewhere else?”

She stared at him for a moment. Surely he was joking. “Dad—“

“He’s badly hurt, darling. He needs professional help, especially if he has internal injuries. And if his wounds really were cast by dark magic… well, what more could we do for him? He could die.”

“No.”

“Hermione, be reasonable—“

“I am being reasonable.”

“If he’s a wanted man, we shouldn’t be harboring him.”

“You’re right, but we have to.”

“I’ll put him out myself, if I have to!”

Hermione jumped to her feet with her fists clenched at her side. Even though her father was a large bear of a man, she did her best to stand up to him. “No,” she said quietly. “I can’t kick him out onto the streets for whoever will have him. I just can’t do that, not until he’s properly healthy. He doesn’t even have a wand, Dad—his is shattered.”

“But what of the police? If he’s a criminal, then he should be given to them!”

“That would be even worse. It’d be Azkaban or execution for him and, while I think he rightly deserves to be in prison for the rest of his life, I don’t want to be the one to put him there. And who knows who's truly in charge there nowadays, anyway? We could all find ourselves facing some wizarding tribunal, in Azkaban right alongside Malfoy, or much worse.”

He looked at her for a long time, thinking. Perhaps he thought he’d talk some sense into her later, for after a time, he nodded and left the room without saying another word. Well, that wouldn’t happen… Hermione would not yield. Whatever had to be done, (and she still wasn’t sure what that was yet…) forcing Malfoy out was not viable.

She plopped back down to her cauldron and gave it a furious stir. After adding a bit of powdered bicorn horn, she sat back and watched it bubble and hiss. Soon, it would congeal and she’d have to take it away from the heat. Stewing murtlap was incredibly fiddly, but at least it didn’t take long.

Her father had been right, though… Malfoy’s presence was dangerous. Maybe, if she properly healed him, he’d then be able to leave. That must have been why he came to her, anyway… she could see no other reason why he would. A nagging little voice in the back of her mind warned that he could still be a Death Eater and may very well take them all hostage once he was well enough. However…

“I've never seen any Death Eater stripped of his Dark Mark,” she said aloud to no one.

As she sat back on her heels she mused on Draco Malfoy. If she thought about it, it really was quite brilliant of him to choose her place to apparate to. If he was running away from someone, her house would be the last place in the world they’d search for him. Maybe, in the throes of his agony, her house was the only place he could think of. She wrinkled her nose. But how could he apparate if he’d never been there before? She certainly never recalled having him over for tea in the past (she chuckled at the thought). So, how?

She removed the cauldron from the flame and set it aside. It would cool there for a while and then it would be ready. She threw a spare cauldron on the fire and set water to boil—soon, she would start the dittany.

In the meantime, she’d go right up to him and force him at wandpoint to talk. Oh yes, she’d do it, all right. No way would she slave away to heal him if he wouldn’t even pay her the courtesy of explaining why.

Late in the evening, after her potions had finished distilling, Hermione entered the guest bedroom with a pocket full of painlessness potion vials and her wand in her hand. Her mother had resumed her spot next to Malfoy’s side. She was mopping his forehead with a rag again; a cool one this time, for Malfoy was still in great pain and was sweating and heaving on the bed beside her.

Hermione frowned. “Are you about to change his bandages?” She saw her mother and father exchange a significant look. “What?” she said miserably. “What is it now?”

“Mione,” her dad began, “I know you’re going to stop his bleeding, but we have to do our best as well, right?”

“Some of his wounds look as if they can be stitched,” her mother said.

Hermione blinked at them. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Granger mopped her sweaty forehead and frowned at her daughter. “We may as well try. What could it hurt? He’s losing blood and what you can’t heal with magic, stitches may be able to mend. It’s been a long time since you were in school, darling.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped at the suggestion that her magical skills were anything but perfectly honed. “I made top marks in potions, I’ll have you know.”

 _Topped only by Draco_ , said that annoying nagging voice again.

“It’s only a few wounds,” her father said behind her. She turned and, to her horror, saw that he held a basket filled with plastic thread, syringes, needles, gauze; all the things you’d need to sew a regular person up.

Draco was no ordinary person, though.

The young girl felt panic rising in her throat. “Mum, wait,” she stammered, “I’ve seen this end badly before. Ron’s dad—big snake—Please just trust me, wizards react differently to—”

“Wizards have skin, don’t they?” asked Mrs. Granger. She and her husband were busying themselves around Draco’s still-sleeping form. Granger Senior was pulling a lamp over to the bed, positioning it over Draco’s body. Her mother spread a sheet over a table and began laying out various tools.

“But you’re dentists,” Hermione whispered. She stared with wide eyes at Draco. He was beginning to stir.

Mrs. Granger smiled at her. “Darling, he’ll likely need a fair few pain vials, don’t you think? He’s waking now.”

Indeed he was. Hermione could see him licking his dry lips. He still appeared to be in great pain. Still more bleeding.

“It's time,” her father said.

Mrs. Granger spoke gently to her ward. “Hello, Mr. Malfoy. We're going to try to stitch you up, is that alright?”

Hermione saw his face contort in displeasure and she rolled her eyes. “Right, I'm sure he's crazy over the idea.”

Her mother ignored her. “Time to get set up, Dad.”

Granger Senior nodded and immediately busied himself at the foot of the bed with preparing for Draco’s “procedure.” If you could call it that. Hermione shook her head. She'd seen a wizard get stitches once and it had not ended well.

Over on the bed, Draco’s eyes were wide and watery. He looked around the room as if he wasn’t sure where he was. “Malfoy,” Hermione said quietly, “it’s all right, they’re just trying to help.”

He tried to sit up. “No, son.” Granger Senior gently but firmly pushed Draco back down against the pillows. The young Slytherin hissed and his eyes squeezed shut. He looked to be in intense pain again.

“The vials, Mione,” said her mother.

The brunette dumped some into her mother’s open hand. “I don’t know how many of them he’s supposed to have,” she said. “I’m not sure about the toxic dose.”

Draco swallowed the first vial. He grimaced, he spit blood, he retched, but kept it down. “Another,” said Mr. Granger. One more disappeared down Draco’s trembling throat. Hermione thought she could see cloudiness stealing into his eyes. His grip loosened on her father’s arms.

“A third,” whispered the mother. Her lips were thin and taut. “Perhaps that will do the trick. Take the edge off for the boy.”

“Merlin, I hope we don't kill him,” Hermione squeaked.

Granger Senior uncorked the last vial with his teeth and urged Draco to drain its contents. He did, slowly. Hermione watched, fascinated, as his tongue darted out to catch the last few drops. He continued to shake, but his face seemed calmer now. The young boy squeezed his eyes shut and laid himself gingerly against the pillows. He breathed in and out, steeling himself for what was coming.

“Well, then.” Mr. Granger threaded a needle and passed it off to his wife, who was pulling on green surgical gloves. “You have the steadiest hands, darling.”

“Shall we start on his sternum?” asked she. Hermione could only lower herself into a seat next to the bed, the one nearest Malfoy’s head, holding a basin in case he became ill. She had a feeling that she may very well need it as much as he at some point.

She watched her father lay a large, comforting hand on Draco’s bare shoulder. “It’ll be okay, son,” he said softly. Hermione stared at his hand, at how healthy and fleshy it looked against Malfoy’s chalky white skin. Gods, Malfoy looked like a corpse.

_What are we doing sewing up a corpse?_

“Here we go,” said her mother. Hermione couldn’t quite watch the needle actually go in. She didn’t have a weak stomach; Merlin knew she’d seen her fair share of gory mess. Instead, she watched Draco’s face. He was grimacing again, and his lips were just so pale…

A soft _pop_ indicated the needle hitting home, and when it did, Malfoy’s silvery eyes flew open. He kicked Granger Senior and hissed through gritted teeth. Bandages ripped—Hermione clutched at her chair and moaned.

“Careful son, it’s all right,” her father soothed, trying to get Draco under control. There was more blood. The basket of supplies tumbled to the floor and bandages scattered around their feet. Draco would come out of the bed if he didn’t stop thrashing.

“Darling, give him another vial,” her mother said frantically. Eyes, brown like Hermione’s own, were wide and frightened.

“Oh Mum, I can’t, we can’t, what if it kills him? What if—”

The lamp shattered with a loud POP! and both Hermione and her mother shrieked. Mr. Granger shielded his wife from the broken glass that went flying.

“ _Damn it_ , Malfoy! Be careful!” Hermione cried, covering her face.

“Get it off him, get it off!” Mrs. Granger cried. She tried her best to pick hot glass off of Draco’s bare torso but was having little success by herself. Hermione quickly came to her aid with several jerky waves of her wand. She sniffled, trying not to let on how frightened she was.

“Give him the damn potion and let’s have done with it,” her father ordered. He grabbed Malfoy’s wrists and did his best to pin them to the boy’s sides. They all ignored the blood seeping from the corners of Draco’s mouth.

With trembling fingers, Hermione passed her mother the last vial of Painlessness Potion. She prayed to whatever gods were listening that it didn’t harm Malfoy any further. From what she understood, that particular potion could act on wizards like morphine could on Muggles; if given enough, one might not come back from being put too far under…

Hermione, her hands frantically wringing a dry rag in her lap, watched the fourth and final potion disappear down Malfoy’s throat. Again, she watched him taste the last drops that lingered on his dry and cracked lips. His eyes fluttered closed.

_Merlin. Sleep, yes… but just don’t die, Malfoy. Please don’t die on us._

She screamed when he lashed out suddenly and clutched at her leg. His hand, not nearly as large as her father’s, though plenty large enough to reach round her thigh, turned a vice-like grip just above her knee.

“Malfoy!” she cried.

His hands were still white. They looked like claws against the dark fabric of her leggings. His eyes looked into hers, seeing her and not seeing her. Each time the needle pierced his flesh, he flinched.

“Keep going,” she heard her father say. “It seems to have dulled the pain for the time being…”

Her hands had crept to her face at some point, though she did not remember when, and she clutched at her cheeks in terror. Draco looked positively _rabid_. His hair was falling into his eyes and he was shaking, his grip was tightening and loosening on her leg and _why_ in the name of _Merlin_ was he _looking_ at her that way!?

His stormy eyes bored into hers and they brought about memories; long lost, nasty ones of course. It was only ever the nasty things she remembered about Malfoy, then again, did they ever have any pleasant encounters?

_"Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?”_

_“What's that supposed to mean?” She'd asked waspishly._

_She remembered his eyes glittering as he leaned lazily against that tree at the Quidditch World Cup. “They're going after Muggles. If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, by all means, stay where you are…"_  

The Gryffindor squeezed her eyes shut tight and pressed her hands down against his. Malfoy’s hand burned hot against her, like a brand. He had a fever.

“Stop,” she breathed. “Stop it–”

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thigh and she doubled over.

“ _Stop, Draco! You’re hurting me!_ ”

It must have been her shrill voice that did the trick. Or possibly the sound of his given name. Either way, Malfoy’s grip on Hermione’s leg slackened. His eyes closed and he appeared to slip into a deep slumber. It finally allowed the Grangers to do the work they needed to do on him. Hermione swore and gave her leg a deep massage with both hands. She glared at Draco’s sleeping face. For the first time since he literally dropped onto their doorstep, he actually looked peaceful. Her face softened. Her parents whispering faded into the background as she watched his sleeping face. She just wanted to be sure that he wasn't slipping into some kind of coma. Hermione didn't think he was; his eyes were moving around enough beneath his lids, so she assumed he was dreaming. His cheeks, while sickly pale before, were burning pink with fever now. She reached forward and gingerly tested his temperature. Definitely feverish.

“Mum,” she began.

“Why don't you leave this to us, Mione?” her mother interrupted. “We can handle the rest.”

Neither of her parents looked up at her or spoke to her after that. Hermione could sense a dismissal when she'd been issued one. She exited the room and, upon hearing her mother’s needle continue to puncture Malfoy’s skin, she felt her stomach lurch. Hermione rushed as fast as she could for the bathroom and was violently sick. She gasped and choked and thought ‘Never. Never again…’

Dizzy, the young Gryffindor staggered into her own bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. She ignored the potions stewing in the corner and willed herself to sleep.

It only half worked. She still heard most of what went on in the next room. It played as background music to the nightmares that visited her; visions of being tortured on the lush carpets of Malfoy Manor while Draco stood in the shadows and watched. Visions of slapping the blond boy over and over and over again until she drew blood, black blood. She even had one horrific dream that she herself sadistically sliced his Dark Mark out of his arm for him with a small, silver knife while he watched, immobile and helpless. Only he wasn’t a grown man in this dream, oh no; he was an eleven-year-old boy, fresh-faced in his brand new Hogwarts school robes.

 _"After I finish this bit, Draco, why don’t I cut a little piece out for every time you ever called me a Mudblood, eh?"_  

When it was finally over, Hermione’s mother entered her room and saw her daughter tossing fitfully on her bed. “Poor darling,” she whispered. She kissed her forehead and hushed her gently. “Sleep now. All will be well.”

Hermione stilled, then, and dreamed no more.

~*~

Meanwhile, in Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor stood a silent sentinel amongst its fading topiaries and overgrown lawns. Brown leaves gathered in drifts over gravel walkways that were once raked meticulously. Fountains were bone dry. Windows were dark. No movement, save for the rustling of trees and the soughing of the wind through naked limbs, could be seen. All was quiet. Even within the Manor, all was quiet. Everything dark. Every corner, dark and dusty. Elaborate candelabras that once blazed bright with melting candles were black and cold. No house elves, no voices murmuring in sitting rooms or next to smoldering fireplaces.

All was silent. And silent. And silent.

~*~

 

The smell of cooking bacon woke her early. Hermione cracked open one eye and saw that it was barely light outside. Her down comforter had been pulled up to her chin for her. “Thanks, Mum,” she whispered. The brunette rolled over and considered going back to sleep. What was the point of getting up early, anyway? It’s not like she had anywhere to go. Besides, the longer she stayed in bed, the longer she could avoid walked past his room.  
Hermione suddenly imagined she could hear needles piercing skin and shuddered. She buried herself deeper beneath her blanket. Urgh. Dreadful.

Merlin’s beard. Just what sort of situation were they in, anyway? Three years they were confined to the little prison cottage on the crumbling shore, and when a distraction finally shows up, it’s in the form of a Dark Wizard they must work to keep alive? What the hell? And Draco Malfoy, of all insufferable people?

_And just what are we to do. If. He. DIES?_

Stitches weren’t going to do a damn thing for the cursed wounds, for the infection, or for his internal injuries. What was she supposed to do about that? Hermione was no healer, had no formal healer training. Even her advanced classes wouldn’t be of much assistance to her.

Her eyes popped open. Speaking of stitches, Hermione suddenly wondered whether they’d taken. Were they still there? Arthur Weasley’s had disintegrated, if she recalled correctly. His wounds had been dealt by that big, nasty snake rather than by spells, so that was a bit different, but ultimately cursed wounds were cursed wounds, were they not? She chewed on her fingernail and gave some consideration to sneaking into the next bedroom to check on Malfoy’s stitches. In the interest of science, of course.

After about fifteen minutes of deliberation and staring out the window at the sun struggling through the early morning Scotland mist, Hermione finally decided to roll out of bed. She ultimately decided against showering or changing the clothes she’d worn last night. Who cared what Malfoy thought about her appearance? Hermione wrapped herself in an afghan and crept quietly down the hall. She saw, when she peered into his room, that Malfoy was still and sleeping. If she squinted, she couldn’t see him well enough to determine if his stitches had held during the night. Blast.

More fingernail chewing. If his stitches didn’t take, then she’d have to throw herself ever the harder into brewing very difficult potions today. She may even have to travel abroad once again to search for more literature on dark magic. And that was dangerous, for it drew attention. Oh, Merlin, what she wouldn’t give to be at Hogwarts now, with access to the Restricted Section…

The sounds of dishes being washed downstairs reminded her that breakfast was underway. Hermione studied her over-gnawed thumb and decided bacon first, Malfoy second.

She made nary a sound as she descended the stairs, still wrapped in her blanket. When she peered into the kitchen, she would see her mother at the far end, drying dishes and staring distractedly out the window. The kitchen window afforded a lovely view of fields that were sloping and green in the summer. Sheep grazed there, or would if there were any sheep locally. Soon, winter would bring blankets of snow, and everything around as far as the eye could see would be white.

The empty look in her mother’s eyes would have bothered Hermione if the young brunette hadn’t had the very same look in her own eyes so many times in the past few years. They were all three of them prisoners in that place, comfortable and safe as they were…

The plate of bacon was mostly empty. Three pieces were left. Hermione took two and disappeared back up the stairs without saying a word to her mother.

  
Unbeknownst to Hermione, her father had been sitting in the corner of his study, watching her watching his wife. He frowned at the pair of him over his newspaper. His eyes followed her up the stairs, and he wondered how soft her face would be as she looked again upon the boy she knew when they were young.

He glanced at the kitchen and saw his wife leaning against the doorframe. She still held a dish and a dry cloth. The shadow of a smile played on her lips. She, too, eyed the empty stairwell.

~*~

“ _Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers._ ” 

The blanket was pulled up to his chin, no doubt the work of her mother. The nice blanket too, which rather surprised Hermione. She nibbled pensively on her bacon.

“ _You're not telling me someone's asked_ that _to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?_ ”

How wrong would it have been to punch a sick and possibly dying person? Who would he tell, anyway?

She was stalling, that's what she was doing. The young Gryffindor didn't want to look beneath the blanket. She didn't want to see his wounds again, didn't want to be disappointed to see them open and oozing and bleeding again. She was almost certain her parents’ stitching had not worked. She pulled back the blanket.

“My god.”

The stitches held! The morning sun reflected off the cleanest ones. The largest wounds, of course, were still open, but at least were packed with gauze and looked cleaner than before. Someone, probably her mother, had even combed and tied back his hair for him. He looked much more like the Draco she remembered.

Merlin’s beard, they’d done it!

“Oh Malfoy, you’re on your way, aren’t you?” she said, almost delighted. She looked at him, smiling, she was shocked to see that his eyes were open and that he was looking at her. He looked tired, but alert. Further words failed her.

His eyebrow had been expertly stitched back together. It would leave a scar that he’d likely carry for the rest of his life, but didn’t men normally not care about that sort of thing? Then again, Malfoy was vain. Hermione stared at his face. He stared back at her, blinking sleepily. He said nothing, so she answered him with silence.

 _She remembered the way his arm had been slashed to bits in Third Year, how Hagrid had cradled him while he moaned and wailed like an infant, and she held the gate open for them, feeling a strange sort of desperation welling in her chest and not knowing why_ …

His cheeks blazed pink. She touched her fingers to his forehead, which was quite warm. He turned away from her hand as if offended that she'd touched him. "Don't be a prat," she said quietly. A mental note was filed away to mention to her mother that the boy was still feverish. She wrung out a cloth from the basin beside his bed and slapped it, not very gently, over his forehead.

_"Does it hurt terribly, Draco?" said that complete cow, Pansy Parkinson. How she'd fawned over Malfoy and his stupid arm in that stupid sling. And how Malfoy had just drunk up that attention, simpering away at the Slytherin table, looking every bit the poor, helpless victim of some wild creature that had assaulted him viciously, when in reality he was nothing but a spoiled brat who'd gotten what he'd deserved in Hagrid's class that day. She remembered fuming silently from her spot at the Gryffindor table, unable to eat anything, just watching him act the fool._

But this couldn't be any different. There was no false pretense, no simpering, no whinging. Malfoy really was dying. Maybe.

“He still hasn’t said anything?” said her mother from the open doorway. She was wiping her hands on a dingy old apron. “I suppose I don’t blame him, the poor thing… all he’s been through…”

Hermione frowned, thinking that the last thing she’d ever refer to Malfoy as was a ‘poor thing.’ When she looked back at him, she saw that he’d fallen asleep again.

“Oh, marvelous!” her mother cried. She’d inspected Draco’s wounds and was proud to see that they’d held overnight. “How wonderful, Mione! They’ll heal much more efficiently, now, won’t they? Splendid news! Your father should hear!”

The overjoyed matron dashed out of the bedroom to share the good news with her husband while Hermione remained behind. Still anxious. She found herself, once again, standing beside Draco’s bed. Her finger positively itched to trace the edges of one of his cleanly stitched wounds, just to feel its Muggle perfection on his wizard skin.

The larger wounds that still wept black blood disturbed Hermione. They’d been expertly packed with gauze and bandaged but would soon need changing. Frequent, unending changing. And Hermione wasn’t positive, but she was _almost_ positive that they’d been dealt by the Sectumsempra curse, and she was unfamiliar with its countercurse.

“But I’ll bet you know it,” she said quietly to the sleeping Draco. “I’ll bet you know the song. What was it called again?” Hermione looked thoughtfully up to the ceiling as she finished her last bit of bacon. Her other hand lingered on the bandage covering Draco’s former Dark Mark. “Ah, yes. The Vulnera Sanentur.”

“The what?” said her mother, returning from downstairs. “Best leave him to sleep, darling. Rest is his best medicine now. Until your potions are done, that is.”

Hermione stared down at the bandages that covered Draco’s larger wounds, particularly the ones weeping black blood. “Did those not take?”

Her mother shook her head. “We didn't even attempt to stitch those, Mione. Too big. We were hoping you'd be able to fix them.”  


“They're likely cursed wounds.”

Mrs. Granger nodded slowly and leaned down to smooth Draco’s hair. Hermione could see that she’d even stitched the small wounds behind his ears. They were clean now and practically invisible; dry and only a little red. What an impressive surgeon her mother had proven to be! Soon, her father joined them in the recovery room, coffee mug in hand. He was smiling, too. “I never doubted your abilities, darling.” He kissed his wife. Hermione found herself picturing the romantic couple in Inverness; she could see the pink lipstick smeared on the young man’s neck, and she turned away from her parent’s display of affection in distaste.

'All right then,' she said to herself. 'This is a good sign. A step in some sort of direction. We can make some positive headway now. He can be healed. Maybe he can be saved. And then maybe... and then...' 

_And then?_

While her mother and father talked quietly about Draco’s condition and checked his bandages, Hermione circled the bed to study his stitching more closely. She watched his face carefully. However awake he'd appeared when she'd first stepped into the room, he seemed to be deep under again. Perhaps those painlessness potions were still affecting him, which rather troubled Hermione. Potions weren't really supposed to affect one’s system for too long… well, she'd give him another day. Very likely, he was just weary and healing. He needed the rest, anyway. She sat down beside him and looked closely at the larger wounds that her mother had been unable to mend. The edges of them were still quite ugly and green. Bruised, blackened, almost gangrenous-looking. Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to smell them to see if they were, in fact, infected. Obviously, she would never be cut out to be a Healer.

She glanced over at her father, who had produced his battered old medicine bag and was rummaging around in it for supplies. When he found what he'd been looking for, a stethoscope, he passed it off to his wife, who slung it around her neck.

“That's about as Muggle as Muggle gets,” Hermione said quietly to herself. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She wondered if Draco, in his privileged wizarding life, had ever seen such a contraption.

She watched her mother lean over the boy with the stethoscope pressed to his sweat-slicked neck. Mrs. Granger was frowning slightly. “What?” said Hermione.

“Nothing really,” replied her mother. “His heartbeat isn't as erratic as before, but…” She sat up and motioned for her husband to come to the side of the bed. “Have a listen, darling. Do you think he may have a heart murmur?”

Granger Senior sat down heavily and plugged the device to his ear and listened. He mirrored his wife’s vague frown. “Possibly. Rather quiet; hard to tell. You're right, though. It sounds much better than it did.” He moved the device down to Draco’s chest. “Yes. Much better.”

Hermione kept her eyes on the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest and said suddenly “Mum, his breathing—Did you heal something within him? It was so, so _jerky_ before. What was wrong?”

“He had two dislocated ribs,” said her mother calmly. “Dad set him straight. It’s a relatively easy fix; though I’m willing to bet he’ll be quite sore for a good long while.”

The young brunette grimaced and looked away, chest aching just thinking about it.

“Bring me your potions and I’ll ready his new bandages, darling,” said her mother. “You get to your reading. We can only soothe these wounds, not heal them entirely. That’ll be up to you.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll do my best, Mum.”

In a daze, she helped her mother with the potions and the bandages. Draco slept on. He still seemed pale, still seemed a bit feverish. She watched her parents fuss over him with little interest.

His clothes, laundered and folded, were sitting in the corner. His shattered wand had been tucked neatly into the pocket of his dress shirt. Hermione pulled it out, examining its shattered length. Its unicorn hair core held it together, looking pitiful. It glimmered a little in the weak sunlight that filtered through the windows. She imagined all the horrid curses it had been forced to produce through Draco’s hands. A few odds and ends had fallen out of his pocket and now lay on the floor at her feet. Gingerly, she picked up a small piece of paper that had symbols etched on it in ink that she suspected may have been blood and—

_Merlin…_

A little red and white striped hair tie, dingy and stained with blood, lay on the floor where the paper had fallen.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes, when she sifted through her memories and replayed them, she imagined that things happened differently. They played like a movie in her mind that she could watch if uninterrupted. This happened quite often during her time in Skye.

In the early evening, when she ushered her parents downstairs, insisting that she have time alone with Draco to talk of "wizarding matters," and stood calmly before the large picture window in his sick room and stared out at the rain. She fingered the dingy red and white hair tie, watching the water run in rivulets over the glass, letting thoughts and memories come at random.

_He had worn such dandy-looking robes to the Yule Ball. His collar was high. And no one was surprised that he danced with that overbearing pig, Pansy, in her gaudy pink gown. She hadn't paid him much mind at first, being far too engrossed in all that was Viktor. The older boy had looked so handsome that night. She had been so excited, and felt so pretty for the first time that she could remember._

_There had been so much dancing. At one point, she stepped heavily on someone's shoe and tripped on the hem of her dress. Viktor didn't catch her, but someone did. She smiled awkwardly, thanking the boy who reached out to her, but frowned up into Draco's face. He, too, looked a little bewildered that his hand held the crook of her arm. He let her go, then, and she didn't see him again for the rest of the night._

Hermione blinked. Had that been a real thing that happened? She couldn't be sure.

_After Ron had been so hateful to her, after he'd said such hurtful things to her when the Ball was drawing to its close, she remembered sitting on the stairs to cry. People filed past her, ignoring her tears. It was like she wasn't there; just another glistening, decorative fixture belonging to the castle. Harry was nowhere to be found, nor was Viktor. She'd never felt so alone. But suddenly, there was a handkerchief in her face. She sniffled, wiped away tears, and looked up, once again, to see Draco's face. He looked contemptuous. The kerchief was monogramed with a delicate letter M._

No way that could have really happened. Perhaps she was losing her mind.

She stared down at the hair tie, twirled it around in her fingers, and felt the anger slowly starting to well up in her. The confusion. The fear. And something quite like betrayal. She could practically taste the bile in the back of her throat. To risk her life, her family's lives...

How _dare_ he...

That had been her first thought when she'd seen the red and white tie lying on the floor at her feet. Swift anger. Betrayal. Fear.

_Rage._

She turned finally and glared at Malfoy's sleeping form. How had that murdering piece of shite gotten ahold of her personal property? He really could only have done it one way, and that possibility terrified her. It made her want to smother him right then and there with his pillow and burn his godforsaken body in the back garden. Bloody Death Eater thieving _scum_.

She left the window with slow, determined steps and closed the bedroom door. A wave of her wand charmed it locked against her parents, should they attempt to enter unannounced.

Malfoy was still sleeping. And he still seemed to be ill. It sparked a small amount of anger within her, and she could feel the calm and logical part of herself withdrawing to the back of her mind. It was like Logical Hermione was growing smaller and smaller and was being pushed into an iron cage, protesting all the while. Caged Hermione had wide, frightened eyes and fought for what was right, no matter what. She was the True Gryffindor within.

_He might be a Death Eater, but he's still sick and hurt. Don't let your anger control you..._

Real Hermione was clenching her fists. "But he _followed_ me here, stalked me and my kin..."

... _your anger control you..._

Caged Hermione's voice was growing quieter by the minute. Her bars slammed shut with a loud CLANG.

Real Hermione poked Malfoy with the tip of her wand. "Wake up."

He stirred but his eyes didn't open.

The little caged Hermione started rattling her bars.

_Isn't right... isn't right..._

This time, the brunette held her wand tip to Malfoy's cheek when she poked him again. "Wake. Up." She felt the shock it gave him. His eyes snapped open and he looked up at her, bewildered, in a fog of fever pain.

"Been playing spy, have you?"

He blinked at her and said nothing.

She sneered, hair tie clutched in her shaking palm. The anger was starting to simmer within her, him just lying there, lapping up all their tenderness and loving care, and then getting nothing in return but contemptuous looks and _blinking..._

Slowly, she leaned down over him until her face was close to his. She dangled the hair tie in front of his eyes. "Tell me, right now, how you got this." Her voice was low and dangerous.

He struggled at first to focus on the object in front of his nose. Once he'd studied it, realized what it was, slanted his eyes at her, he sighed and turned his head to face the wall. She gripped his chin and brought his face back to hers. "Now!" she demanded. Her fingernails dug into his flesh.

His eyes, though tired, were angry, and he gave a strange growling, whimpering sound. It curdled in his throat, making the caged Hermione's pleas grow louder.

_Hurt, he's hurt, he's hurt, leave him alone, it isn't right..._

"Fine. Fight fire with fire, I always say." She kicked off her shoes, rolled up her sleeves and climbed into the bed next to him. He seemed a little surprised by her actions, but his feverish state allowed him little time to react to her and so he was unprepared when her knees dug into his sides. He flinched and let out a quiet moan.

"I've locked the door, you know. It's just you and me, Malfoy. Now, I suggest you answer my questions because you're starting to _irritate_ me." She leaned over him and grabbed his face again. " _Talk._ "

She could feel him struggling feebly beneath her, but her weight was enough to keep him pinned to the bed. He simply wasn't strong enough to throw off even her light weight. But if he struggled too much, he'd rip his stitches. The thought gave her a small amount of dark pleasure.

 _He's sick, he's sick, he's so very sick, please, you can't_...

His face burned bright with fever under her hand. She wiped away his sweat and scowled. "You stole this from me. I know you did. And that's how you found us, isn't it? That's how you broke my wards." He tried to turn his face away again but she dug her fingernails even harder into his jaw, making him moan. The black smoke in her mind started to swirl, fanned by the rage and hate and misery that had been smoldering inside her for years, three bloody, godforsaken, awful years, trapped in that horrid house with her _fucking_ parents, hiding from people like _him,_ and she could _feel_ now that hate burning like acid through her veins, unchecked, ignited by every bead of sweat she saw form on his brow and every gasp of pain that escaped from his lips when she squeezed his jaw.

She was hurting him, and she _loved_ it.

"Tell me!" she shouted.

He glared at her, then, and she could see seven years worth of schoolyard hatred in his eyes and seven years of being bested in classes.

And she could practically hear him whispering the word in her ear:

_Mudblood._

She reached back and slapped him with every ounce of her Mudblood strength. Her hand connecting with his cheek sent shocks through her arm that she felt all the way down to her toes. The caged Hermione cried out in anguish, weeping blood tears.

But not the _real_ Hermione. She sat atop Draco staring at her open palm. It was red and hot with delicious friction. Draco lay beneath her, still as stone. His breath came quick; shallow. Was he afraid? When had Draco ever been afraid of her?

She grabbed his face again with her free hand and shoved the hair tie under his nose. "I'm tired of this game. Spit it out. _Tell me!_ How long had you been following me? Huh? How did you find out about the Skye cottage? Got a few moles in some boring little corner of a Muggle title office, do you?"

His silence only further enraged her. She squeezed his jaw until she could feel the corners of each of his teeth through his lips, making him squirm and groan beneath her.

"How much do they know about me? My family?" She boxed his ear and he gasped. "Talk to me you, you--"

Malfoy tried to sit up; he actually almost succeeded in making her slide off of him. He made a feeble attempt to grab for the hair tie and missed, opening his mouth to hurl some filthy retort at her. Only, he didn't speak. He _still_ wouldn't speak. His voice failed him, as it always did. He could only growl, gurgle, gasp. His eyes widened in shock and pain; they were so close to hers now, with their faces only inches apart. She could see his pupils dilated to pinpoints. His eyes weren't glassy with fever anymore.

Malfoy clutched his throat and fell back against his pillow. He turned away to cough blood over the sheets.

Hermione stared; his neck, his hand clasping it. The blood.

Of course.

"Malfoy, you've been cursed." She watched him wipe the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, watched his fingers curl around the hair tie that she'd dropped on his stomach. Her rage still boiled inside her but the genius within stirred and she slid from the bed. "You can't speak."

He whipped his head back and forth frantically.

"By the same people who did this to you?" She motioned to his wounds. He nodded.

She gritted her teeth. "Of course you can't. Of _course_ you can't. Anything to be bloody difficult..." She spun on her heel and made for the door. The knob turned but the door stayed resolutely closed. She yanked on it and it didn't budge. In her rage, she'd forgotten all about charming it closed. She didn't even remember dropping her hair tie. She was like an animal now, a purely emotional creature, driven solely by instinct. Pure id. Caged Hermione was nothing but quiet moans at this point.

With an angry _Alohamora_ , she charmed the door open and made for her room. Inside her closet, she pulled out clothes and books and old stacks of parchment until she found what she needed: a fresh notebook and her pencil case.

Downstairs, Mrs. Granger looked up in surprise to see her daughter burst into the kitchen to raid the cabinets and pull out a large cutting board. "Mione?" she called. "What are you doing?" She felt a twinge of fear. Hermione's eyes had been dark and wild. She did not reply to her mother.

"You can write, can't you?" Hermione demanded as she stomped back into Malfoy's sick room. She slung the cutting board at him. He flinched. "Your hands are fine. I know you can write, mister Top-Marks-in-Potions. _Three foot essay on moonstone_ Mister, Malfoy!" She slapped the notebook down in front of him and grabbed his hand. "Tell me now, Malfoy, right now! Tell me if any more are coming after you!"

He tried weakly to pull his hand away. She gripped his fingers tighter and jammed a ballpoint pen between them. "Bet you've never seen one of these before, have you? No, bloody Wizard-born brat. Well, sorry, fresh out of quills." She closed his fist around the pen and squeezed, hard. Her own strength surprised her, but she couldn't stop. Her anger and fear had compartmentalized and she no longer had control of its output.

"Hermione!" came a cry from the door. The brunette whipped around, hair wild, eyes wilder. Her mother's hands were at her face. She was white with fear. "What are you--"

"Stay out of this!" Hermione hissed. The sound terrified her mother.

Hermione turned back to Draco and slapped him again, _hard._ Mrs. Granger cried out. So did the caged Hermione.

_Stop it, stop it, STOP IT! YOU CAN'T!_

"Write!" she snarled. She had her wand again and she jabbed it into his cheek just below his eye. It started to hiss and she knew it was burning him. There would be a blister. What was happening to her? She was losing her mind. But she felt _raw_ and _alive_ for the first time in years and she simply couldn't _stop_ herself.

The stitching above his eye had partially split. A little blood seeped out, tracing along the outer edge of his pale lashes. She could smell it; thick, like iron. Alive. A heady cocktail.

Part of her registered her mother disappearing quickly from the room but it didn't stop her mad torture of the boy before her. She jabbed him again with her wand. "Was I your pet project, then? You were brought up hating filthy little Mudbloods like me, but maybe you took some sick pleasure in following me around. Did you follow me back here and peer in these windows to watch me? Studied me while I ate dinner and changed my clothes?" Another jab, this time in the neck. "Did you like what you saw, then? Catalogued it? Reported back to dear old Daddy Lucius? I bet you two had a grand old time in that disgusting drawing room, sharing details about my every move. Sick _bastard."_

Malfoy grasped his neck where she burned him and groaned again. He coughed more blood, moaned. He tried his best to shield himself from her but was no match for her strength, her healthy body, her rage. She climbed onto the bed next to him and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Take that pen and write. _Write!_ Tell me everything! Every bleeding detail, Draco! I swear, when you're healed and this is over, I'll drag you out onto those moors and kill you. I'll kill you so slowly for putting me in danger this way, for putting my family in danger! I hate you! I _hate you!_ " She slapped him, again. And again. "I hate you! And I never did _anything to you!_ "

SLAP.

SLAP.

"Damn you, Malfoy!" she shrieked.

Heavy stomping from behind her. Suddenly, very big, strong arms snatched her up from the bed and flung her through the air. She watched, bewildered, as her feet flew up to the ceiling.

" _What!?_ "

She was being dragged bodily from the room. Her mother's cringing form hid in the doorway. She was a blur of worrying hands and sad eyes. Hermione shrieked again and kicked at the air. "Let me go!" she screamed. Her father grappled her and carried her kicking down the stairs. Her feet tore framed photos from the wall and narrowly missed his head more than once. "Put me DOWN!"

He carried her to the bathroom, slammed her unceremoniously into the large claw foot tub, and reached down to flick the shower knob all the way on. Hermione's head banged against the side of the tub and she cried out in pain. Then, she was suddenly consumed by a great torrent of ice cold water from the shower over her head. It completely soaked her, clothes and all, from head to toe.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

Granger Senior slammed his big hands on the lip of the tub and bent down to her level. "There!" he shouted into her face. "Now you stay there and you COOL OFF!"

Hermione spluttered and shrieked in outrage, tried to right herself in the tub, slipped in the water, banged her head again, and screamed.

" _Dad!_ "

"I SAID STAY!" he roared.

She screamed again, and again, raging and slamming her fists against the sides of the tub like a petulant child. Her insides felt like they would burst will all the rage trying to force its way out of her. Towels flew out of the cabinets, the window rattled in its pane as if being struck violently with invisible fists, and the shower curtain ripped away from the rod. Each of its rings pinged off, one by one, flying off and striking the tile and shooting in all directions.

If she shrieked any louder, her own voice would fail her, just like it did Draco, and she'd be mute like him. She'd hack blood and be useless just like him...

Her father stormed out of the bathroom while Hermione choked and growled and struggled to her knees on the slippery porcelain. With trembling fingers, she wrestled with the shower knob until the flow of icy water over her head finally ceased. Water streamed down her face, out of her hair, into her mouth. Her tantrum left her in degrees. Immediately, powerful shivering seized her and caused her entire body to shake. Her teeth chattered. She hung her arms over the lip of the tub and stared at the empty doorway her father had disappeared through. She had a brief moment of feeling ten years old again and being punished for calling one of her folks a filthy word during a fit.

"Shite," she shouted. "Shite. Shite!"

She jammed a hand into her sopping wet hair and groaned. Reality was closing in very quickly and her mind, which for some time had been running on a foggy, high octane was now suddenly coming back to a cold and stark awareness. Time was running back to seconds and minutes again. Things were so...quiet. Adrenaline was still coursing through her, adding to the freezing water soaking her clothes that made her shiver uncontrollably. Her hands quaked. She stared at them.

_There was a girl inside her mind, a younger version of Hermione sitting in a cage, but that cage was open now and the younger Hermione was sitting in the cage with her legs swinging in a care-free sort of way. She was looking over her shoulder._

" _Now look what you've done."_

And then Hermione looked down at her arm. Her skin was pale and cold, wet with shower water, and she could see the old scars there that had never healed. They practically glowed there, blue and white:

_Mudblood._

Her heart felt squeezed inside her chest and all her breath went with it. She stumbled from the tub and fell to her knees. "Malfoy," she gasped. Horror, like heavy molten lead, poured into her chest and down into her stomach. She tried to stand and fell against the bathroom door. 'I'll be ill,' she thought. 'I'm going to be sick.'

She limped blindly through the halls and up the stairs, thanking any and all gods that existed for Draco's door being firmly closed as she dashed past his room and into the safety of her own bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and heard the wandless _Colloportus_ charm seal it closed with a loud squelching sound.

She pulled her sodden clothes off and threw them on the floor. Violent shivers still wracked her body. Her wand was probably still in the other room, lying on the floor next to his bed. Or maybe even still jammed in his throat where she'd left it. Had it really been her that'd done that?

Hermione stood before her mirror and stared at her naked form. Goosebumps were raised on her pale skin. She was skinny, too skinny, hunched over and trembling. She doubted she had the strength to cast a wandless warming charm over herself. Her lips were sickly-looking and blue. She stood close to the mirror, close enough for her hot breath to fog the glass, and looked into the haunted eyes that stared back at her.

_What have I done?_

She remembered how once, long ago, she'd lifted a hand to Draco in anger when he'd openly mocked Hagrid. He had backed down then. He always backed down from her.

Her fingers traced the old _Mudblood_ scar and shame and sorrow welled up so suddenly and forcefully in her throat that for a moment she thought she'd weep openly. Her vision blurred with tears and she could no longer see her pale reflection staring back at her.

"Malfoy," she said quietly. "I--"

 _She had slapped him with all the strength her thirteen-year-old self could muster. "You foul_ \-- _you evil_ \--"

_But he hadn't seemed foul or evil standing in the drawing room of his Manor. His back was turned and he seemed small, frightened. He was unwilling to identify her, to betray her to his family._

The tears came, then, leaking steadily over her cold cheeks, leaving hot tracks that she could taste when they pooled in her lips. She sobbed and turned away from the mirror. No way could she look at herself anymore. She was far too ashamed.

Hermione, crying loudly out to the silence of the room, pulled an old t-shirt from her dresser and dressed herself with shaking hands. She climbed under the thick covers of her bed and stayed there for the remainder of the day, just crying into her pillow and feeling sorry for herself. Sorry for the childhood lost, for what could have been a promising young adulthood had things gone the way they were supposed to if good had really won like it did in all the fairy tales, and most of all, she felt sorry for what was lost in the bedroom next to hers; some sort of innocence she felt like she'd clung to for years, some form of goodness that she'd had up until the point when she had let anger and hatred and bitterness take her over and she lashed out and nearly killed a helpless man. Better people than her had been in much worse predicaments and hadn't acted half as horrid as she.

_What would Harry think? What would Dumbledore think?_

She had once been deemed so trustworthy that she was given the title of prefect. Surely, she would also have been made Head Girl, had she ever been given the chance at her Seventh and final year in school. She was the Golden Girl; Gryffindor personified, perfect. Pure. Righteous. Defender of defenseless house elves, the underdog. Voice of the voiceless.

No longer. Now she was just a pitiful hollow version of herself, weeping pitiful tears into her pitiful old pillow, soaking it through while her cold, pitiful cheeks stuck to it in miserable way. Her heavy, down blanket did nothing to stop the violent shivers that still wracked her body. She was in mourning; mourning for her old life of safety and happiness in Hogwarts, for her old friends, for the witch she once was and could have been.

At some point, after crying for hours, she fell into a dreamless sleep. It was a blessing, really. Her dreams had been nothing but dark and punishing as of late. Hermione would have thrown herself from her window if she would have been forced to relive what she'd done to Malfoy again in dreams.

_Never. Never again._

* * *

When she awoke, it was still dark outside. Probably close to dawn, though how close, she couldn't say. She didn't have the energy to search for her wristwatch.

She stared out the window for quite some time. The sky was dark, no stars. The next day would probably be cloudy and rainy, just as the day before had been. Fitting.

Her bed was warm, but she was hungry. And as much as she dreaded it, she knew she had to see Draco and apologize. Also, she had to at least say something to her parents. They probably thought she was a loose cannon. And she _needed_ to get her wand back.

Quietly, she slid from the bed and wrapped her robe around herself. She found her slippers and charmed her bedroom door open. Listening for any sounds outside, she peeked into the hall and found it dark and silent. Draco's door was open.

She stood on the threshold for what seemed like hours, just staring at his sleeping form. What would she even say to him if he were awake?

"Draco," she whispered.

She approached the bedside, silent as a wraith, and looked down at him. He was on his side, facing the wall. Her wand was on the floor next to the bed. She tucked it into her pocket. The tears came back, unbidden, and she didn't bother wiping them away.

"I'm sorry. I'm just... Malfoy, I'm sorry. I'm not myself. I'm losing my mind in this place. I don't know who I am anymore. I never would have hurt you if I were in my right mind. I'll do my best to help you from now on, I swear it."

He slept on and on. She was grateful for it. What would she say to his face, anyway? The chair was still beside the bed. Her mother's chair. The nursing chair. It occurred to her that she probably didn't deserve to sit in that chair, that she was no longer worthy to sit in the chair of comfort and healing, but...

Hermione slid into the worn old wooden chair and gently pulled a small blanket around herself. The room was chillier than she would have liked. Maybe she should find a space heater for Draco. But she was tired, so tired, tired down into her very soul. He had about seven blankets piled atop him at the moment, so that would have to do. She sighed and propped her elbows on the mattress.

"I'm losing my mind, Malfoy," she said wearily. "Is this maybe how you felt when you were stuck with the Death Eaters for so long? When you were forced under Voldemort's heel for all that time? Maybe this is how you felt, too." She rubbed her eyes. "I don't even know myself anymore. I don't know anything beyond these walls. I don't know the world anymore. I just... don't know."

She could see that part of his shoulder was exposed to the air, so she reached up to tuck the blankets up beneath his neck, gingerly so as not to wake him. "There. Merlin, you're roasting. Has Mum changed your bandages? I hope so. I haven't the strength to do it now. Besides, I think you'd probably have a heart attack if I tried, anyway." She chuckled darkly to herself. "I am mad, aren't I? This whole situation is mad. You don't care about me and I don't care about you. So why are you here? Why am I here?"

More tears welled in her eyes when she studied his face and realized that her mother had placed butterfly bandages over his eyebrow to seal the place where his stitching had ripped. There was a bit of dried blood there, blood Hermione herself had drawn in her rage. It was black against his chalky white skin. "Oh, Malfoy." Her lip trembled. She reached out to touch the crusted blood, but withdrew with a sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so _sorry._ "

For the second time that night, Hermione wept. She felt so incredibly sorry for Draco, for herself. She didn't dare touch him, and she didn't want to go back to the dark loneliness of her room, so she laid her head on the mattress and cried as quietly as she could. She soaked the sheets as thoroughly as she did her pitiful old pillow.

Eventually, she cried herself to sleep again, her sniffles fading away into silence. The tears dried to her cheeks and she returned to that blessed dream-free place with the old blanket still wrapped around her. She never saw how Draco stared at the wall opposite them, eyes wide and strangely blank.

* * *

When she awoke for the second time, it was full morning. She was back in her bed, and very confused. How had she gotten there? She sat up, blinking stupidly at her open bedroom door. A blush crept into her cheeks. Her father must have found her in Draco's room and carried her back to her own. She shivered and clutched the blankets around her. Apparently a cold front had come through with all the rain. It was quite chilly in the house. Luckily, it being such an old cottage, there were fireplaces in most of the rooms, and hers had a few logs waiting to be lit. However, she thought at that moment that she'd rather die than touch her bare feet to that cold floor, so she stayed resolutely wrapped in her comforter and stared around the room, feeling dull. She caught a glimpse of herself in the floor mirror in the corner and cringed.

Oh pale, waltzing Merlin, her _hair--_

She'd forgotten that it had gone unbrushed the day before, gotten wet, then dried unbrushed yet again, and slept on and wept on twice. She tried to comb her fingers through it but only got it tangled further into knots.

A folded piece of paper on her bedside table caught her eye. It hadn't been there before. She reached over and picked it up with hands still shaking from the previous day's tiring events.

Hermione had never seen the handwriting before, and even though it looked quite shaky, she could tell that it had been penned by someone who had been, from the time he was very small, under the tutelage of the best private instructors that money could buy. The script was very loopy and sprawling, only two words:

_Vulnera Sanentur_

Suddenly, the cold floor was the furthest thing from her mind. Hermione flew out of bed, leaving the blanket behind her, and hurried down the stairs. "Mum!" she cried. "Mum! Dad! I found--" Her foot slipped on the last stair and she stumbled, sprawling over the lush carpet at the foot of the stairs.

"All right there?" She looked up to see her father frowning at her over his newspaper. Hermione scrambled to her feet with the paper clasped in an outstretched hand.

"Dad, look!" As soon as the words left her mouth, she faltered. Suddenly, she felt like a girl of ten again, and her father's rage from the day before came back to her, and the memory of her behavior made a great shame sink into the pit of her stomach like some sickening, indigestible meal.

He looked her up and down. His frown was deep and she could see the great displeasure in his eyes. She felt like the lowest low thing on the face of the planet in that moment. She felt hot tears burning her eyes, and this time her eyes felt almost like they were cramping, so tired and overworked were they from expending so many tears the day before. How she had any tears left in her, she didn't know.

_Dad..._

Granger Senior said nothing to her, only gave a tired sigh and disappeared behind his paper again. Hermione swallowed the renewed crying that threatened to surface and asked, "Where's Mum?"

"With the boy," he answered simply.

She held out the paper again. "What is this?"

He rustled the pages of his newspaper. "He wrote that for you."

"For me?"

"Well, obviously. I've no clue what it means."

Hermione scanned the words _Vulnera Sanentur_ again and felt a small bit of the elation she'd felt in her bedroom return to her. So he _did_ know the counter curse. And he could write. If he could teach her the countercurse, then she could heal his Sectumsempra wounds.

"Thanks, Dad," she said quietly, turning to dash back up the stairs.

Her mother was sitting in her usual chair beside Draco's bed. She looked up at Hermione's soft footfall in the doorway. Her eyebrows furrowed in a very disappointed way that only mothers can pull. "Hermione Jean."

The ten-year-old inside Hermione cringed. "Mum."

Mrs. Granger folded a napkin in her lap. "Your friend needs to eat. Sit with him while I go downstairs, will you?" She turned a very stern look on her daughter. "I will be _right back._ No fussing."

Hermione flushed red to the roots of her brunette hair and stepped aside as her mother glided past her. She released a shuddering breath and walked slowly over to Draco. The note he'd written was still clutched in her hand.

 _Merlin,_ she could feel the heat coming off him before she even reached his bedside. "Oh no," she said. He was shivering and swooning beneath the blanket. His back was somewhat turned to her but she could see that his eyes were rolling around feverishly beneath his closed lids. He was so _sick..._

"Malfoy," she breathed, "your infection is spreading. I â€” I don't know how to heal infection. I don't know the spells. I don't know of any potions. I don't have the ingredients." How could he possibly write such a complicated spell as the Vulnera Sanentur to heal the very wounds that were currently poisoning him?

She wracked her brains desperately for any piece of information she might have picked up in all her years of schooling, in any of her reading, that may help him. Anything at all...

_Fever...stopping infection, stopping poisoning... bezoar? No, that's ridiculous. Petrify him! No, even more ridiculous. Damn it Hermione, think, think..._

The brunette tore into her bedroom and rifled through all of her old potions books. Ingredients jumped out at her, scrawled notes and messages. How she wished Harry were there with her, holding that dreadful Prince book that he'd borrowed from Snape in their sixth year. It seemed to know everything about Potions and beyond. Useless words like Amortentia and Polyjuice and bloody flobberworms jumped out at her and she groaned in frustration.

And then a word caught her eye: _lobalug._

Words from a far distant Potions class filled her head:

" _Merfolk ensnare lobalugs and use them to poison humans and other creatures to drag them under the waves and devour them... properties can also be used to cure ague, to halt poisons in the bloodstream..._

"Lobalugs?" she said aloud, almost in a disgusted way. "No, no how....

She had no such things. Her Potions ingredients kit had nothing like lobalug poison. And she'd combed every apothecary and Potions shop for miles around and had seen nothing like that. There was no time to go further abroad to search for any stores of lobalug toxin in more obscure Potions shops. Unless...

Hermione looked over her shoulder at an old, beaded bag that hung from a hook on her closet door. It was partially covered by old scarves, but there it was. Like it was just waiting for her to remember it.

There could _possibly_ be a way...

Her feet moved on their own, seemingly, taking her to the closet, and her fingers reached out to touch the faded fabric of the old bag. The beads, many of them missing, were discolored. They didn't catch the light anymore, like they did so long ago when this very bag had accompanied her across the countryside on her adventures with Harry and Ron. When they all had destinies, when they all cheated death.

'I did it once,' she told herself, 'I did it once and I survived on my own merit for ages, on my own brains and guts and nothing else. I could do this.'

"I owe him," she said out loud. She gripped the bag tightly in one hand. "I owe him this one thing, at the very least."

Who would have ever thought that there would have come a day when _she_ owed Draco Malfoy anything?

She nodded, quick and determined. Right then. No time like the present.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were perplexed to see their daughter enter their ward's sick room dressed in a bright yellow raincoat and dark jeans, with heavy boots laced to her knees and a tacky little beaded bag slung over her shoulder. Mrs. Granger's jaw dropped. "Hermione, what--?"

"I have to go," said the Gryffindor simply.

"Go where?" said her father, who still had his newspaper with him, tucked neatly under his arm.

"South."

Her parents looked at each other as if their daughter was speaking in tongues. "South? What are you--?"

Hermione wasn't listening to them. She pushed past them, boots thumping heavily on the wooden floor, and looked down at Draco. He was still buried beneath the blankets. When she held her hand out, she could feel the heat rolling off him in waves. Gods, the man could die soon if not treated, baked to death in his own sick body.

She saw the little hair tie curled in the fingers that were sticking out from the blanket. That sight caused her belly to clench in a very unpleasant way and her eyes sting far more than she was comfortable with. Very gingerly, she unwound the hair tie from his hot fingers, covered his exposed hand with the blanket and began combing her hair back. 'For good luck _,_ ' she told herself.

When the band snapped against her thick curls, Draco eyes slitted open and he looked at her.

"Malfoy," she said quietly. She had to bite her lip hard to keep it from trembling. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say she was going to make it up to him. She wanted to tell him he'd be alright. However, all she said was:

"I'll be back soon."

He only blinked in reply.

An odd feeling came upon her then. The logical part of her mind contemplated it while she stood there, that suddenly overwhelming urge to do... _something._ What was it? Something _girly_? Affectionate? Soothing? She suddenly wanted so badly to tuck him in, or smooth his hair, or kiss his cheek, or hug him, _anything_ to convey emotion and significance and remorse, to be heroic and meaningful, but...

But something bigger stopped her. Fear. She knew that if he flinched, that if he cringed and shrank back from her, or if she saw any fleeting bit of terror in his eyes or any clue that he was afraid that she'd come down on him again with her hands like she had before, well... She knew if that happened, anything like that, she knew she'd lose all her resolve. She'd break, she'd lose her courage and she'd never leave the house. Her heart would shatter into a million pieces and he would never get the medicine he needed. He would die of blood poisoning, he'd roast to death in his own feverish body, and it would all be over.

So, instead, she gripped the edges of her jacket to stop herself from reaching out to him. And she bit further into her lip. Soon, there'd be blood. She didn't want him to see her tears, and if she didn't leave _now_ she'd cry.

"I'll be back," she said again.

She walked so quickly out of the bedroom that her parents almost tripped trying to catch up with her.

"Hermione, wait!" called her mother. "What do you mean, 'South?' Please, just wait--"

Her father followed close behind. "Are you fetching medicines for the boy? What town are you going to? If you just told us--”"

"I'm not going to town," said the brunette calmly. She pulled the hood of her raincoat up over her hair.

"But Mione," her mother fretted.

_Go. Just go. Stay at least five steps ahead of Doubt. Just go. Walk._

"She's cracked. Have you cracked? You've cracked haven't you?" Mr. Granger stood by the door with his hands on his hips and stared in awe at his daughter.

Hermione ignored him and opened the front door. "I'm going to Loch Coruisk."

Mrs. Granger looked as if she'd been slapped. "Loch--Loch--"

"Hermione!" her father gasped. He reached out to grab her by the shoulders but she was already out the door. His Muggle hands were no match for her, not when she was a Witch on a mission. In two light steps, she Disapparated off the old, crumbling steps with a loud _CRACK!_


	4. Chapter 4

There was a small, white cottage on the coast that was meant as a meeting point for hikers who liked to explore the rocks and inlets. It had been so many years, but she remembered its weathered shutters. Back then, it had been high summer, and the weather was fine with the sun shining. The grass had been green. It had been warm.

That autumn day, however, was bleak. Rain was still threatening. Everything looked dead and dark. Wind whipped around and bit at her exposed face. The sky over her head was angry and swirling with dark clouds. Hermione knew very little of the area.

She saw some bicycles parked near the cottage but otherwise she knew herself to be alone in the area. Suddenly, Hermione was afraid. Even though she had traveled the country years before for several months, she had never been alone. She had always had Harry and Ron with her, or Harry at the very least. Never had she been on her own. She was afraid.

‘Focus,’ she told herself. ‘You don't have time for this. Find the loch and then get home. Do it.’

She saw a few jack-o-lanterns with jagged smiles in the windows of the old cottage and with a quick intake of breath, she realized today was Halloween. A dark shiver unrelated to the wind crawled over her skin. _Spooky_.

There was a faded, painted sign next to the cottage. She traced the routes mapped, idly fingering her necklace, and decided to follow the rocks that led to the west. She had a map in her bag, just in case.

The wind picked up and Hermione pulled her hood tighter around her face. Small pebbles skittered from beneath her boots as she traversed the uneven terrain. It was more mountainous to the west, which made Hermione uneasy. She'd never been much at climbing.

“I can do this,” she told herself.

As she usually did in situations of stress, Hermione went over the details of her plan in her head in a workable order. A list of sorts. Going through steps calmed her. And they were simple steps, really. Make it across the rocks without breaking an ankle, find the right loch, somehow acquire lobalug toxin, apparate home…

_Maybe a little easier said than done…_

Hermione kept to the river, knowing by what she saw on that map that it would eventually take her to the loch. But, it was hard going. The ground was boggy underfoot and her boots sank deep. Keeping to the rocks was also difficult; they were slippery.

She kept her mind busy, trying to remember how she kept herself occupied when she was on the lam with Ron and Harry all those years ago. They did a fair amount of walking and spoke little to one another. Hungry, tired, and grouchy more often than not, they mostly took to silence while traveling. In those instances, she either recited arithmancy charts or sang to herself in her head. Today, she couldn’t remember her numerology charts and no songs in particular came to mind, so Hermione instead talked to herself.

 _Are we going to pretend that yesterday never happened?_ asked Nagging Hermione.

Real Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know. Leave me alone.”

Nagging Hermione, who looked an awful lot like Caged Hermione aged a few years with a makeover, was cynical. _Alright. Let’s ignore the fact that you had a mental break. Have you given any thought to what this may mean for your relationships with your parents from here on out? Now that they’ve seen you act like a raving lunatic, that is._

“Nothing they’ve never seen before,” Real Hermione retorted, thinking back on a childhood with its fair share of fights and temper tantrums.

_It’s different now. You’re a grown woman, and a dangerous witch to boot. Now they’re afraid of you._

She bit her lip. Yes, yes they may very well be.

 _And_ he’s _probably afraid of you too, if he remembers any of it. Of course, if you fail, and that’s very possible, he’ll die, and then it won’t matter how you acted._

“He won’t die.”

  
_He might, though. You may as well ready yourself for that very real possibility. Come on, Mione. You’re a realist. The Hat didn’t almost put you in Ravenclaw because you’re stupid._

“Damn,” she swore. She hated arguing with herself. It never made her feel more insane. Rather than bicker with her own mind, Hermione decided to practice the warding spells she’d be using on her trek today. She'd thought of a few modified ones and written them down, so she began memorizing them as she walked, using the steady rhythm of her own footsteps to lull her into a sort of trance. It worked for a while.

Minutes passed, then maybe an hour. Hermione glanced at her watch, trying not to worry. Time was of the essence, but there was no way she was willing to risk apparating to a place she'd only ever visited once. She'd end up stuck in a rock forever, probably. Though she'd seen the pair of bicycles back at the cottage, she saw no sign of their owners as she hiked. That was probably for the best, anyway. She didn't want to be seen doing what she planned to do down at the loch. A cold raindrop plunked onto her nose and she grimaced. Lovely.

More walking, more silence. Hermione thought she could smell something burning every once in awhile; just a small hint of it whenever the wind changed. And out of the corner of her eye, she felt like she saw glowing eyes, eyes like the jack-o-lanterns back at the little white cottage. Eyes with candle flames licking inside them. And maybe it was just her being silly, but… the air felt different the longer she walked. Was it just her imagination, or was it truly the magic in the air, growing as the clock ticked ever closer to the witching hour?

“Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen,” she chanted under her breath. “Voices whisper in the trees, ‘Tonight is Hallowe’en!’”

The young girl smiled. Yes, there really was old magic in the air tonight. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage at some point. She pulled her hood tighter over her curly locks and pressed on.

Memories visited her again as she descended into her trance-walk. Their realness was questionable, just as they had been the previous day.

_At Slughorn’s Christmas party, she remembered seeing Draco storm into the room, followed by an angry-looking Snape. Everyone had seen the embarrassing show of Filch dragging Malfoy in by the neck, revealing him as a gate crasher. Now that the excitement had died down and the rest of the partygoers had returned to their drinks, she had a chance to properly study the Slytherin. The light was dim, but she could still see the dark circles under his eyes. He looked thin. Haggard. Sixth Year had not been treating him well. As Hermione hid behind curtains, trying her damnedest to avoid Cormac, she kept a watchful eye on Malfoy. He kept to the shadows mostly. Spoke to no one. He barely ate and drank flaming firewhiskies off the tables when no one was looking. She watched in awe. He seemed unaffected, even after six or seven drinks. How much did that boy drink in his spare time? What would make a sixteen year old boy able to drink a giant under the table?_

_From his darkened corner, his silvery eyes shot up and caught hers. Her lips froze on the rim of her punch glass. They'd both been caught, hiding and spying. Glowing fairies flitted through the air. People milled back and forth, music played, chatter buzzed around him. Hermione felt her cheeks growing hot because Draco, for some reason, wasn't breaking her gaze. He casually knocked back another firewhiskey and, to her dark delight, winked at her._

Hermione blinked rapidly, registering another cold raindrop plopping down onto her exposed cheek.

“That was real,” she told the air. “I remember.”

 _I remember you, Malfoy_.

A crest was ahead, a steep slope of dark colored rock and when Hermione scampered over it, she finally saw it; a lake that she'd only seen once when she was very small. It had a few tiny islands scattered inside of it. And it was massive, surrounded by barren rock that was very steep on some sides. In this dismal autumn season, everything was bleak and brown. The water was black, forbidding. The wind stirred its surface in a threatening manner. It was probably ice cold.

“I'll be damned. There it is.”

She held her breath and apparated to the island that was farthest from land. It was also the largest, just barely large enough for her to take a few steps around, but big enough for her purposes. It was very quiet here. The tall rocks above buffeted most of the winds and it was almost eerily silent down by the water. She peered down into its black depths and saw nothing.

 _If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you_.

“Yikes,” she whispered, effectively silencing Nagging Hermione. “No, no more of that.” She blew out a loud breath and stood up. “Right, then.”

Hermione opened her bag and felt around for the few objects she'd need: a few empty jars, a small book of beginner's Mermish (just in case) and an emergency bezoar. Just in case? Who knew. There were other odds and ends in the bag but she hoped she wouldn't need them. She didn't plan to be there long.

“Okay,” she said to no one. She peered into the still, black water again. Nothing stirred below the surface. Not even a fish could be seen slipping around in the depths. It seemed almost dead. But she knew better. If this loch were like any other, an entire civilization was living down there, probably staring right back at her, tridents ready to spear her like a trout.

That thought made her skin crawl, and suddenly Hermione was afraid again. She rubbed her arms, trying banish the anxiety. No time for fear.

Quickly, she cast a shield charm, the clearest one she could conjure, and after that, added the modified sticking charms that she'd practiced in her mind during her trek through the rocks and weeds. In theory, they would work. She hoped they would. As soon as the charms took effect, she ceased to feel the wind. Good; that was a good sign. She squinted around, looking up at the cliffs. Birds nested there. She could see a few of them creeping about. Some sat glaring down at her, judging her. She scowled back up at them. ‘Sea rats,’ she thought.

She gave a measured sigh, only slightly shaky, as the fear still plagued her somewhat, and stretched her wand out to the water. She felt it pierce the wards, rather like pushing through thick spiderweb, and pressed its tip to the water's surface. She then whispered an incantation, the only one she knew for such a situation. A summoning spell.

Hermione then watched ripples flow out from her wand tip. They were bright blue in color and didn't roll out like normal ripples. They moved far too slowly, almost like the water had turned to molasses. She stared, fascinated, as they moved silently out and faded into the black surface of the lake into a hushed whisper. The wind stirred, the birds called, and then nothing happened. The cold closed around her again and all was silent.

She sat back on her heels and felt her hands starting to shake. Staring avidly into the inky water, she was terrified of what she might see. What exactly had she done? What would happen now? She knew in theory what may happen, but…

“May happen, could happen, should happen… I'm in uncharted territory. I know nothing.”

The bookworm in her felt as if she should be taking notes. Ridiculous.

Sitting for so long was starting to make her legs cramp. Hermione shifted her weight and tried to make herself comfortable on the rocks beneath her, but it didn't help much. Her eyes stayed resolutely glued to the black water before her. Nothing stirred beneath it. However, her paranoia was starting to get to her, and she imagined she could see spears and long hair flashing below. She remembered the Black Lake all those years ago, being soaked to the bone in that freezing water and clutched close to Viktor’s chest, terrified to look up into his half human, half shark face. She remembered the shrieking of the merfolk around her. Merlin, why couldn't she remember more of that? She wished she had asked more about it, thought to research more about it at the time. It would come in useful today. But she was so wrapped up in Harry at the time, so wrapped up in Viktor… the stupid fourteen-year-old Hermione could never have dreamed that she'd one day be facing her own Trial.

If she bent her mind on it enough, she could hear that awful screeching egg of Harry’s. The sound still sent chills down her spine.

In fact, she heard it so plainly in her daydream that for a moment she felt outright panic, and for the briefest of moments, she gasped, and she could see the flash of her wards breaking, her concentration lapsing, and then her awareness coming back fully and the wards snapping back like a firecracker. She could even smell it; like a fuse burning.

‘Merlin help me,’ she thought. ‘I need to stop doing that.’

Something suddenly burned in her left shoulder and she gasped, slapping at her jacket. A small object skittered to the ground by her feet and Hermione fell backwards and scrambled back against a large rock. Her breath came quickly as she began to panic. Her arm burned; she yanked off her jacket, pulled her jumper off, rolled her sleeves up and studied her arm. It was a little red, and to her horror, she saw the tiniest drop of blood forming on her white shoulder. She looked down at the rocks and saw what appeared to be a small, sharpened fishbone lying at her feet. Shaking, she picked it up and studied it. It had been carefully carved and inside a hollow place inside it was a tiny, blue, pulsating little sack, almost iridescent. Hermione felt her mouth go dry, felt her heart race inside her chest.

Oh, bollocks.

Anxious little whines spilled from her mouth seeming on their own. She wiped furiously at the tiny drop of blood at her shoulder and tried her best to remain calm. It was only the tiniest of scratches. Barely drew blood. Surely it wouldn't affect her much… it would be okay…

“Don't panic, you stupid girl, just remain calm…”

Hermione forced herself to slowly and calmly place the mermaid dart in one of her glass jars, seal it, and place it aside. Then, because she did some scouting as a girl and because it was the first thing that occurred to her, she placed her mouth over the small puncture on her shoulder and sucked at it, just as she would have done if she'd been bitten by a snake. Why not? Couldn't hurt. She covered it with a muggle bandage that she pulled from her beaded bag and dressed again quickly, all the while eyeing the lake with wide, terrified eyes.

She had been attacked.

“Bastards,” she muttered under her breath.

And as soon as she zipped her raincoat and attempted to stand, she saw them; gleaming eyes just below the surface. First one pair, then another. And another. And soon, she realized that her tiny island was surrounded by Merlin knew how many Merfolk. She gasped.

The lake’s surface was instantly chaotic, like a hundred tiny fish were all jumping at once all around her, and she could see dozens of tiny fishbone darts flying through the air. She screamed. But they would all stop, stuck like pins in a cushion in her wards, and in a matter of seconds, she felt like she was enveloped in a giant invisible porcupine tent. The darts hung, suspended, where they stuck. Some were struck off by others that followed them and flew off in all directions, but the vast majority stayed put. Hermione clutched her wand in terror, still feeling the slight sting of the one that made it though in her shoulder.

After was seemed like hours but was really only about a minute, the water calmed down and the darts stopped flying. Things grew quiet. Hermione’s shallow breath was ragged. She stared around, still seeing the flash of the Merfolks fins below the water. They seemed angry; confused. But after another minute, they disappeared.

Her dark eyes flitted all around the inside of her protective dome. Her vision, fueled by adrenaline as it was, magnified the tiny points of each of the hundreds of darts that aimed towards her, sharp points aching to pierce her delicate pink flesh. And each dart held a precious little sack of venom that her childhood nemesis, sickened and dying in her bed back home, so desperately needed.

Her fingernails dug anxiously into the gravel beneath her, but she remained resolutely still, waiting for the Merfolk to make their next move.

 _They’re waiting_ , said Nagging Hermione’s annoying voice. _They’ll wait and wait for that poison to knock you out and then they’ll drag you down. Didn’t you pay any attention during Care of Magical Creatures? You’re going to be fishfood, Mione._

“They don’t like to be called ‘creatures,’” she said to no one.

After another few minutes passed, Hermione finally felt it; the fatigue. Her vision was blurring slightly and her eyelids were growing heavy.

“No,” she moaned. She sat up and rubbed her arm. “No, it barely poked me.”

The colors all seemed brighter. Things seemed louder. She squeezed her eyes shut against the assault to her senses and sat back against the rock. “No, no, no.”

She could hear little clicks and taps around her and knew that, though her protection wards still stood, the sticking charm was wearing down because she was wearing down, and the darts were starting to fall.

“Damn it,” she sighed.

Her mind was swimming with fatigue, feeling like glue. Thoughts were running together and over one another without any sensible linear form. She cracked an eye open and thought she could still see silvery scales sliding beneath the water.

Words from a song she knew came to her from everywhere and nowhere:

_Many miles away something crawls from the slime at the bottom of a dark Scottish loch…_

She closed her eyes and licked her lips and whispered “Many miles awa-a-a-ay…”

_As she slipped into a fever dream, she found herself lying in her bed, staring out the window at the rain. It always seemed to be raining on Skye. But no, she wasn't on Skye. It was her old bedroom in her parents house; the house she grew up in. She was home, finally! But still, the rain was just as miserable and cold here as it was out on those moors. She turned her head and saw that she was sharing her bed with a bandaged Draco Malfoy. He was frowning at her._

_“You're hogging all the blankets,” he said._

_“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, pulling at the sheets and tucking her share of the comforter under his chin. “Don't want you to catch pneumonia.”_

_His eyes closed. “Wizards don't catch pneumonia.”_

_“Still.”_

“That's ridiculous.” Hermione sat up, trying to pull herself out of the delirium. “Snap out of it, Mione.”

_“How's the eye?” she asked him, pointing to his split brow stitching._

_He shrugged. “Stings a bit. But you hit like a girl.”_

_“I am a girl.”_

_“Whatever.”_

_She burrowed down into the blankets, frowning. “I'm sorry I hurt you.”_

_He shrugged again, though appeared to wince a bit. “You should have seen what they did to me before I came here. I've had worse.”_

_“That makes me sad to think about.”_

_He wrinkled his nose. “It makes you sad to think about me being beaten to death?”_

_“Of course it does. Why would it make me happy?”_

_“I didn't think it would make you_ happy _but--” he scoffed and turned to look at her. “Bloody Gryffindors and your_ feelings _.”_

_She smiled. “And Slytherins do not have feelings?”_

Hermione knew she was in a toxic delirium, because her fever-dream Draco smiled serenely back at her, and that vision made her laugh out loud to the empty and silent loch. Her eyes closed and she slumped back against the rock, laughing no more.

~*~

Some time later, she wasn't sure how long, (probably not long, as her wards would have totally failed and the Merfolk would have eaten her) Hermione came to with a start. Her mind still felt foggy and her limbs were heavy. She moaned and sat up. The cold made her bones ache.

“Bloody fishpeople,” she muttered, squinting around the tiny island to try to find her belongings. The jars were where she’d left them, unbroken. Good, that was a good start. Now, if only her mind would clear enough for her to make her escape…

The air was quite still, freezing, and now she could smell the burning smell again. The witching hour was indeed getting closer; Hermione could feel it in her lips and fingertips, or was that just the lobalug toxin?

“Damn, where’s my bag gone?” she groaned.

There was a whistle, and she looked up and froze. Brown eyes met silver. Mirrored eyes, several feet away. Perched on a rock adjacent from hers, scaly arms folded, looking haughty and supremely bored, was who she could only assume was their Chieftainess.

Fear fractured. There was no longer room for fear. Hermione felt the saliva retreat from her mouth as she slowly stood. Her limbs were still heavy, yes, and her knees felt like they had lead weights tied behind them, but what little adrenaline was still left in her that could fight against the lobalug toxin was beating through her Gryffindor heart and through her arteries at top speed. She stood tall, eyes level with the Merwoman. It had to be their Chieftaness; the merlady had long hair tied in intricate knots and wore many beaded necklaces, laced all about with shells.

Her wand stayed tucked in her pocket. Why draw it? The Merwoman held no weapon. Hermione had no doubt that the Chieftainess had warriors beneath the waves with tridents at the ready, waiting to strike her down if she so much as blinked in a way that displeased them. But she stood tall with her chin high. It's what Harry would have done. It's what Harry _did_.

'I rode a dragon. I broke into Gringotts and crawled from its hellish depths by myself. I survived Malfoy Manor and the Battle of Hogwarts. I don't fear Merfolk.'

Hermione said nothing to the Chieftainess as she held the greenish fishwife’s mirrored gaze. She didn't speak Mermish anyway. But she probably wouldn't need to… Hermione suspected that the Merwoman had a perfectly good grasp of English, much like the higher-ranking Merfolk in the Black Lake had.

With surprisingly still hands, Hermione picked up all the scattered darts. There were so many; so very many tiny pulsating little blue sacks of poison. Surely these would be more than Malfoy would ever need to stall the infection that was slowly killing him. Each dart clinked in the glass jar she placed it in and soon each jar was filled. She shrunk them and stored them safely in her beaded bag. Hermione glanced at her watch, which read 4:07. Soon it would be full dark. She needed to get home.

The Chieftaness had been watching her silently the whole time, wearing a rather bemused look. Hermione nodded at her. “Happy Hallowe'en,” she said.

The Merwoman lowered her head a bit in acknowledgement, then caused a small stir in the surface of the water with her tail. Hermione could see silver scales flashing all about, then disappearing.

Before the Chieftaness returned to the water, she plucked a shell from her knotted necklace and tossed it. Hermione plucked it from the air with the deftness of a Seeker and blinked down at it. Once opened, she saw that it contained some small bit of shriveled lake weed. She looked up at the Merwoman, who made an eating motion with her webbed hands.

“This is…” Hermione squinted down at the shell, but with the lobalug toxin still coursing through her veins, she found it very difficult to rack her brains for the answer to what this mysterious substance was. She felt that she maybe knew it… as if the answer were on the tip of her tongue.

She looked up and the Merwoman was gone. However, silver fins still glimmered from the dark depths, and Hermione had no doubt that weapons were at the ready should she choose to linger. She palmed the shell and took a deep breath.

Then-- a shriek, a splash.

Something clutched her ankle and Hermione screamed. A gray, slimy hand and arm yanked with all its might and dragged her down into the freezing water. She shrieked again, bubbles exploding from her mouth, and clawed at the sandy gravel beneath her. Her other foot sank down into thick mud. When she opened her eyes, stinging in the turbulent lake water, she saw a merman looming over her. She screamed again. His hand lashed out, found her throat, and for a terrible minute she was sure that this was her death, that this was how Hermione Granger met her end; amongst the filthy weeds and muck at the bottom of a lake. But his hand didn't close around her throat-- it grasped the small, silver necklace her mother had given her for her 20th birthday, the one she rarely took off, and he snatched it from her. She heard its tiny clasp break and saw it glinting at her, all silvery and lovely, through the green gloom. And then it was over; the merman was gone, she was alone, and freezing water was taking her.

'No!' her mind cried. Quick as lightning, Hermione flipped around and clawed her way back up the rocky slope of the island, and finally her head broke free from the water and she took in a screaming breath full of terror and relief.

She dragged herself ashore, pushing against the gravel with limbs shaking so bad she nearly fell many times, and collapsed over the bag she’d dropped. Her eyes squeezed shut and she desperately summoned the strength to cast at least a small warming spell over herself. She was so cold that she felt her skin burning. Her fingers, stiff as they were, closed around her wand. Slow warmth crept over her then, just barely enough for her to gather her bearings, and...

CRACK!

With a loud, squelching thud, her body dropped unceremoniously onto the crumbling old porch of the Skye cottage. Having just apparated, the air was compressed from her lungs and would have been knocked out of her upon impact, but she was spared that discomfort. The only thing her senses could comprehend was the heaviness, the cold, the pain.

She lay like that, shaking violently on the old stones, fingers curled like white claws around the strap of her beaded bag.

~*~

  
Upstairs, Draco Malfoy lay shivering beneath his many-layered blankets. His face burned, his body ached. Everything was so dark and confusing.

Suddenly, he was aware of Granger’s presence. She was back from wherever she’d gone. In his fever dreams, he’d dreamt she’d gone off to a parallel universe to combat dragons, wielding a flaming sword and clutching very valuable, glittering glass bottles to her leather-armored chest.

His eyes fluttered closed. Relief. He slept again.

~*~

Never had the stink of low tide at that miserable old cottage been so welcoming. Hermione closed her eyes and listened to the water dripping from her hair. Minutes passed, she wasn't sure how long, but soon, she could hear the door opening, heard the quiet, desperate voices of her parents, and felt herself being dragged bodily from the porch and into the comfortable glow of the cottage.

It was warm, gods, so very warm. The whole of the house smelled of dinner cooking. Candles were lit in the halls and a fire was going in her father’s study and Hermione felt as if she would cry in relief just to be home, home in sweet warmth and comfort and relief. She felt her father place her gingerly on the old sofa, with her mother pulling off her soaked boots. They were muttering, sounding concerned. Damn, was she really that far gone? She wasn't even shivering anymore.

Her eyes fluttered closed again. She was just so sleepy. Wet and uncomfortable, sure, but the fatigue and probably the remnants of the lobalug poison were pulling her deep, down into blessed sleep. Someone slapped her cheek and she gasped, eyes flying open.

“No sleeping, Mione,” her mother whispered harshly. The young brunette blinked and looked around, realizing she was now in the bathroom. Water was running.

“No,” she croaked, “no more water…”

“Don't be ridiculous,” her mother answered. With practiced hands, her mother stripped her of her sodden, filthy clothing and helped to maneuver her into the large bathtub. It was full of lukewarm water, but it felt on the verge of boiling against Hermione’s frozen skin. She groaned and began to cry.

“There there, darling.” Her mother took her stiff fingers and rolled them in her own, warm hands. She allowed Hermione to settle down into the tepid water. The shivering took over again.

“Malfoy,” said Hermione.

“He'll be okay for now. Don't worry about him.”

“No choice.” Hermione attempted to sit up but her mother pushed her back down into the water.

“You need to warm up a bit first.”

“I'm fine. I have to… got to make his medicine.” She struggled against her mother, weak as she was.

“Please darling, stay here a bit longer and warm up. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“No! Hermione cried. “Let me up, I have to—“

Suddenly, she recalled the loch. The Chieftaness. The shell…

“Moly,” she gasped.

“What?”

“Moly!” Hermione sat up as fast as her stiff limbs would allow. “Moly. ‘Course… That’s what it was. Mum! Where’s my coat? The pocket—“

Her mother looked very perplexed. “Well, it’s downstairs, love… soaking wet.”

“I need it! Hurry, please, the lobalug—“

“D’you mean this?” her mother reached into her apron pocket and withdrew the little shell Hermione had been gifted at the loch. “It must have fallen out of your pocket when you fell on the steps outside.” She wrinkled her nose. “It does smell a bit, you know.”

Hermione took the shell from her mother’s hand and opened it. Dried, blackish weed was still inside. Yes, this was definitely Moly, an herb that was supposed to reverse spellwork and dilute toxins. Merfolk must have kept it handy in case one of them got stuck with one of their own poison darts. She popped the little ball of dried herb into her mouth and grimaced against its muddy, bitter taste. Her hands gripped the edges of the tub as she willed herself to swallow. It was disgusting. But she knew that in mere moments, the remnants of the lobalug toxin would clear from her system and she would be able to move around and think clearly once again.

It felt like pepper to her insides; warmth suddenly rushed back into her, more than the tepid water could have ever done for her, and her hands and fingers lost their stiffness. She blinked at the clarity in her mind. “Help me,” she instructed her mother. “Help me out.” Her mother, though dismayed, stood and helped her out. Water streamed from her daughter’s body and pooled everywhere on the floor, but Mrs. Granger pressed her lips together and said nothing.

Hermione donned a white towel, frowning at the uncomfortable feeling of her wet knickers plastered against her skin, and marched into her bedroom. Her image in the mirror was so much different than it had been that morning. Dark circles still hung beneath her eyes, but her color was back and she was standing straighter. Hermione felt herself trembling lightly. That was from sheer awe at the power of herbs and not from feeling cold anymore. Her mind was sharp.

“I’ll be damned,” she said to her towel-clad reflection.

Her mother had followed her into the bedroom. “Darling, don’t you think you should get some rest now?” she asked in a hushed, worried tone.

“No time,” Hermione said as she tore into her dresser for dry clothes. “No time for that. I’ve got to distill this poison for him. He’s getting worse by the hour.”

Mrs. Granger, who’d hardly left Malfoy’s side in days, knew her daughter to be speaking the truth and so only nodded glumly. She disappeared, leaving Hermione to her work.

“Right,” Hermione assured herself. “We can do this. Focus. _Accio bag_.”

The old beaded bag came zooming into the room and into her outstretched hand. Soon, she began to work.

The red glow of Draco’s sickly face haunted her, but Hermione forced herself to work slowly and carefully, concentrating on each movement of her deft fingers. She sat at a makeshift desk with a large magnifying glass positioned before her face, borrowed from her father, so she could properly see the tiny iridescent lobalug poison sacks embedded inside the hollows of each fishbone dart she’d stolen from the merfolk. With a pair of silver tweezers, she very carefully extracted each pulsating blue blob and placed it in a shallow dish of water.

To her dismay, each sack yielded only a miniscule drop of iridescent navy-colored poison. Not much to work with, but with so very many darts collected, hopefully she’d eventually have enough for a diluted brew of medicine for the dying Slytherin in the next room. She reasoned that she needed at least enough for him to drink one cup of distilled poison tea now, and while that worked on him, she could draw out the rest of this toxin.

An hour or so passed, with each of her parents checking her progress, looking rather anxious, but finally she had about a teaspoon of the inky poison. A kettle of water was boiling beside her over a little camping stove. Into it, she poured the poison and allowed it to continue boiling.

“All right,” she declared, carrying the pot into Draco’s sickroom. A teacup was in her other hand. “Mum, get him a towel, will you? And prop his head up better against those pillows. He needs to sit up to drink this.”

Her mother obeyed, still looking bewildered by her daughter’s behavior and sudden recovery.

Hermione slid onto the mattress next to her ward. He still looked bright with fever and his lips trembled. “It’s okay, Malfoy. I’m here.” She poured the toxic brew out and held the teacup to his lips, wincing as precious drops flowed out of his mouth and down his neck. “Malfoy, you must drink it all. Please, try your best to focus.”

“That’s what you went and risked your life for out there?” said her father from the doorway. He was frowning. “Tea?”

Hermione scowled: “Yes. Tea!” She ignored him then and continued to urge Draco to drink. “You must at least finish this cup. Come now. There’s a good lad. Another sip. Keep going.”

They all watched him as his eyes rolled back in his head. His head tossed lazily back and forth on his pillow and he seemed to be whispering to himself, none of them words that Hermione could make out.

“He’s delirious,” said Mrs. Granger.

“Yes, but not just from fever anymore,” assured Hermione. She laid a hand against his forehead. “It’s a side effect of the poison. He’ll be quite... out of it for a while, but the toxin will halt the fever and the infection coursing through him. He needs to drink more.”

“What’s he saying?” asked Granger Senior.

“No telling. His voice is no good. Cursed out of him, I think.” Hermione was trying her best to make the blond boy’s head still so she could urge him to drink more of the tea. “Come on, Malfoy,” she said softly. She noted that the tea was bringing color to him that he hadn’t had in quite some time. His lips were pink and even his tongue, which had been always dry and generally sad-looking before, was healthy and pink as it darted from his mouth to catch the bitter drops of tea she pressed into him.

Well, poison could do that to you temporarily, so Hermione didn’t let herself get too optimistic. She turned to her mother. “Keep on him with drinking this as often as he can stand it,” she instructed. “I have to go make poultices for his cursed wounds.”

Mrs. Granger’s nose wrinkled. “Poultices? Out of what?”

Hermione stifled a heavy sigh. “Out of whatever’s on hand, Mum. Take the tea.”

Her mother took the cup reluctantly and Hermione cleared the room before the older woman had a chance to question her healing methods further. She did cast one little glance over her shoulder before she rounded the doorway: Draco’s eyelids were fluttering and he was grinning like a cat. Whatever he was dreaming about in his lobalug-toxin delirium, it must have been interesting.

In the kitchen, the young Gryffindor busied herself over a few pieces of clean linen she’d cut carefully from old bed sheets, folding them, trying them and arranging them so that she could spread them with a mixture of the concentrated toxin she’d distilled, coconut oil from her mother’s stores, smashed garlic, and various herbs from her emergency potions kit. She wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the ingredients would encourage healing as well as actual medicine would, but in the absence of real healers and real medicine, this would have to do.

Back upstairs, Hermione’s mother studied the poultices she’d made, gave one a sniff and scowled. “Garlic,” she said nastily.

Hermione and her father both rolled their eyes to the ceiling, steeling themselves against another one of Mrs. Granger’s tirades against “alternative medicine,” which, as a seasoned medical professional, she hated with a passion.

“I know we're rather limited here, but blimey, if I ever thought I'd be stooping so low as to applying _pantry ingredients_ to one of my poor patients, I swear…"

Hermione saw her father pinch the bridge of his nose out of the corner of her eye.

"...and you know those loonies that bathe themselves in essential oils and refuse to vaccinate their children think that they're ‘educated’ because they've done all their ‘research’ off articles they've read from the internet, don't you? It's horrifying, I tell you. They'll look a physician with thirty years' hospital and research experience dead in the face and tell them that they're wrong, that somehow they're in the pocket of ‘Big Pharma’ and other such rubbish. D’you know what they call alternative medicine that works? They call it _medicine_.”

“Yes Mum, thank you!” Hermione said through gritted teeth. She concentrated on pulling back Malfoy’s bandages, trying not to visibly cringe at the extent of his ghastly infection. Green, red, yellow… surely so much color in one place on a person should mean death. Oh Merlin, and the smell…

One by one, she laid each of her fresh poultices over his wounds, covering every inch of infected flesh. Draco flinched every once in awhile but otherwise didn't seem much bothered by her ministrations. Her mother was at his head trying to coax him into sipping on the tea. Her eyes followed Hermione’s hands suspiciously and she continued to mutter about “pro-diseasers” and “quacks” under her breath.

“There,” said Hermione, sitting back and admiring her work. “That'll have to do for now.”

Her mother shook her head but said nothing, only gingerly tucked the blankets around Draco’s body and left the room. Granger Senior soon followed.

“Finally,” said the Gryffindor with a huff. Her parents could be such a suffocating presence sometimes.

She scooted closer to Malfoy and studied his face. His eyes still rolled about behind his lids. Hums and soft growls issued from his cursed throat.

“You’ll need to drink more soon. I need to get you better.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I need to… make it right.”

His chin jerked and she noticed his eyes fluttering wildly again. Hermione touched her hand to his cheek and frowned.

What are you dreaming about now, Malfoy?

“Gr...ger,” he whispered.

The brunette cried out in shock. His voice! She nearly vaulted off the bed. Could it have truly been…? It was a voice she hadn’t heard in so many, many years. Could it be?

She patted his cheek again. “Malfoy! What's happened? You can speak! Say it again, say something! Are you alright? Wake up!”

His eyes opened. They were his usual pale, silvery color, though she could tell that he was stoned out of his gourd. The real Malfoy was miles away. This medicated thing lying beneath her was someone else. But, at least he could speak.

“The Chamber?” he rasped. His voice came hoarse, like a rusted gate.

Hermione frowned. “What? Malfoy, you're not in your right mind.” She watched his hand move up to his face, to touch her hand that was still holding his chin. “Is your curse broken? You can speak again.” For some reason, her own voice was dropping to a low whisper, as if she were afraid anything louder would blow out the tiny flame of his budding renewed voice.

His fingers, still rather white and thin, traced the edges of hers along his cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed. “It wasn't there, anyway.”

“Malfoy, what wasn't where? What are you talking about?” She sighed again. There wasn't much point in arguing with him. He was deep in lobalug delirium. Flying high in another universe. She pulled her hand away, a little uncomfortable at the familiarity of the touch, and made to tuck him in. “Get some rest. You've had enough tea and your poultices need to sit for a while.” Then, something occurred to her, something so brilliant and obvious that she gasped aloud and made Draco jerk with a start. She patted his cheek again. “Wait, just a moment. The Vulnera Sanentur. You remember writing the note for me, right? You know the spell. Tell me, now that you can speak. I know you're stomped, but at least try. Do you think you can do that, Malfoy?”

The boy gazed blankly up at her, still muttering incoherently. She felt a little frustrated and urged herself not to be, considering his condition. There was time, especially now that his curse appeared to be broken. However…

She leaned forward and took his face in her hands. “Draco,” she said softly. “Try. I know it's hard, but focus. The Vulnera Sanentur. Sing me the song. I can heal you straightaway if you teach me. Try.”

His eyes closed. She felt disappointment well in her, however, he needed rest. Gently, Hermione pulled the blankets up around his chin and scooted out of the bed. She tidied up her supplies and heard him start to mutter to himself again and would have ignored it, but this time she could _feel_ his whispers working in the room. Each syllable tugged on the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, pulled on her subconscious.

“My god,” Hermione breathed, dropping all her supplies. “He's doing it.”

Malfoy lay beneath the blankets, whispering feverishly the long incantation for the Vulnera Sanentur. Or so Hermione assumed; she'd never actually heard it and only seen it printed once in her life, years ago. Without his wand, it was weak magic, but she flew forward and whipped his blankets back to see what little effect it was having. Her hands flew to her face in awe. The greenish, blackened edges of his wounds that weren't covered by her poultices were receding ever so slightly. Their infected, sickly edges were fading. The dead flesh was being cleaned. Knitted, almost. That was the first part of the song; the cleaning of the flesh. Clearing the infection. He could do that, at the very least.

Still, Hermione could see the toll it was taking on him; Malfoy’s face was strained. His teeth were clenched and the tendons in his neck were stood taut.

“Stop, Draco,” she pleaded, placing her hands on his shoulders. “That’s enough. It’s enough to know that you can. You’ve done brilliantly. You mustn't tire yourself out now. Rest.” She smoothed his hair out of his eyes and tried her best to soothe him. “Rest.”

He quieted, then, seemingly commanded by her touch. His breathing became light and regular. He slept. Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and sat back and watched him. He was a fascinating case study, really. She’d never had a patient before and she’d never attempted such complicated healing magic.

She’d never held a Death Eater hostage, either.

‘Former,’ she thought, glancing down to check the progress of the healing Dark Mark.

For a long time, Hermione sat quietly, studying Draco’s sleeping face, holding his hand in her own. She felt she owed it to him to at least keep watch over his vulnerable, healing body while he rested. Merlin only knew what an unpredictable thing lobalug toxin could be. Besides, she felt sort of… connected to him now. In the span of only a few days, she’d both beaten him half to death and then risked her life for him. She’d also held his life in her hands since first he literally dropped on her doorstep; his life’s blood had flowed through her fingers. The girl had been, to put it rather bluntly, almost knuckles-deep in some of his nastier wounds. She’d seen him at his filthiest. Aside from intercourse, it didn’t get much more intimate than that.

Not that intimacy was really something she wanted to think about. She stared down at her small hands enveloping his. Sure, it was definitely something she desperately lacked in the three long years she’d been hiding in the Skye cottage, but…

_You can’t be serious._

Hermione shut her eyes against the Nagging Hermione’s voice. It was a particularly annoying and grating voice (and was usually always right.)

_You’re really going to let boredom and self-pity lead you to get hot for anything in the shape of a man? This one’s on death’s door. Snap out of it._

She shook her head slightly to clear it. “It’s not like that,” she whispered.

_Sure it isn’t._

Hermione grasped his hand tighter and shook her head again, more fervently this time. She sat up straighter and studied Malfoy’s face. No, it really wasn’t like that. Not like what Nagging Hermione was suggesting. Not like it had been Seventh Year, when she was on the run. And not like it had been right after Harry had disappeared. No, it wasn’t anything like that.

Not like the scared, awkward fumblings in the dark woods while they hid from nameless Death Eaters that they were certain were tailing them around every corner. Yes, both Ron and Harry, though neither of them ever knew about the other, and she never took it as far with Harry as she did with Ron. And she always suspected that Harry initiated their one and only fooling around fiasco because he had so desperately missed Ginny, and she went along with it because she so desperately missed Ron… Anyway, they never spoke of it again, and it disappeared into the backdrop as much more important things unfolded soon afterward.

People started dying.

And Ron, well… They had their on-again, off-again flings for years before he, too, disappeared. There was feeling to it, emotion, but intimacy? What did she know of that? What did any of them know of it in those last few years of war and misery? They’d all done nothing but live on the precipice, staring down death…

Then again, she thought, still studying Malfoy’s face, what could be more intimate than that? Hermione rolled his fingertips between her hands, watching the way the light glinted off of his nails. What could possibly have been more intimate than standing side by side with someone, being inches from destruction right alongside them? Fighting for your life with someone else, fighting for someone else’s life, surviving with someone else. What was some ridiculous coffeeshop date spent nervously twisting your hands and thinking of things to talk about compared to that? Or even necking in the back of some movie theatre… what was that, compared to clinging to someone else’s body, certain you were about to breathe your last breath?

Hermione shook her head again and lifted the edge of the bandage covering his forearm. It, too, looked a little better than it had before. However, it had always been one of the cleanest wounds, so she suspected it hadn’t been inflicted by dark magic. Probably just a knife. It was redder now; healthier than it had been. The center was… a bit blacker than she thought she remembered. Had it always looked that way? She squinted into the wound, studying his flesh. It was gory, meaty. She could tell she was looking mostly at exposed muscle. His superficial flesh had been sliced away. Still, the muscle looked dark, blackened, a bit like a bruise but not quite. As gently as she could, she lifted the entire bandage away and stared.

Yes, definitely black. Black in the center surrounded by his red, raw flesh.

_Black, and in the shape of a snake and skull._

Hermione yanked her hand away. It couldn’t be! The Dark Mark!

“How deep can that mark possibly go!?” she wondered aloud in horror. Her hands trembled at her mouth, and it may have just been her weary mind playing tricks on her, but it seemed as if the Mark moved, just as it did on one’s skin.

“Can what go?” asked her father from the doorway. Hermione yelped and turned wide eyes on her father, the image of a skull burned into white bone flashing in her mind.

'On his very cells,' she thought.

Granger Senior frowned. “Mione, you look very tired. You must get some rest, pet.”

She stared open-mouthed at her father, slowly processing what he said. Rest?

“I—“ she glanced once again at Malfoy. “Yes, yes you’re right.” She surreptitiously covered his Mark and stood up. “D’you think you could, um… sit up with him? Keep an eye on him for me?”

Mr. Granger held up his book, indicating that that had been his intention from the get go.

Hermione nodded her thanks and made for the door. As she passed her father, she took her by the arm and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Rest up, love.”

Tears stung her eyes then, though she did not know why, and she returned to her bedroom. Once beneath the down comforter, she stared up at the ceiling. She was tired, yes, but Malfoy’s arm troubled her.

His Dark Mark was still… there. Like it had printed down through all his layers.

Merlin, could one never, ever cut deep enough to remove it? And if it was still there, did that mean that the Dark Lord…

She closed her eyes and commanded herself not to think on it anymore. A deep sigh escaped her. What a day. Shot by Merfolk, almost drowned, almost frozen…

It was like being seventeen all over again.

Finally, after imagining life as a merwoman, Hermione slept.

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sorry for the delay in writing. I found out a few weeks ago that I’m pregnant. Being sick all the time makes writing hard. Here’s to almost being out of the first trimester, though. Cheers! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Draco slept for nearly two weeks after Hermione gave him the poisoned tea. It was a pretty boring two weeks, Merlin knew. There wasn’t much to do, aside from sitting up with the Slytherin boy and making sure that he drank and ate a little. Hermione passed the time well enough. It was almost like it was before Malfoy even appeared; quiet, predictable.

A few times, Hermione went abroad to gather supplies for the family. The trips were always uneventful. She did notice a distinct lack of people in the towns, though. Maybe it was the weather.

When abroad, she collected as many papers as she could. She often sat up with the boy while she read them, looking for any hint of his name, or of his family. Anything that might suggest that his disappearance was known. However, the paper writers were heavily censored and almost no negative news on the state of the country was printed. Everyone was trying to carry on as usual despite the deaths and disappearances, the fires and destroyed buildings, kidnappings and waves of pestilence. There was certainly nothing suggesting that anyone was looking for him. Not a whisper.

Hermione knew Lucius to be on the run with the rest of the Death Eaters who had scattered after the war. She knew nothing of his mother, though she was likely with her husband. But who could tell? If Draco had been nearly killed by his own, who knew what could have happened to his dear parents?

When the newspapers frustrated her, Hermione turned to her old textbooks. She didn’t have too many magical volumes, but she stayed up late each night reading, hoping to learn as much as she could about cursed wounds, counterspells and anything else that may help Draco when he finally awoke.

One night, she sat on the bed next to him, skimming through an old copy of ancient Wizarding families. She frowned when the Malfoy bloodline came up. Its family  
tree looked much like the Black one, with many spots erased from it. At its end was a little name in cursive: _Draco_. She traced it with a fingernail. That little name was lying in bed next to her, snoring away.

She stared at him and wondered for the millionth time when he would ever wake up.

Sometimes, when she was bored, she’d sit next to him and imagine the conversations they’d have once he was awake and alert.

_Where have you been?_

_Why did they hurt you so?_

_Why did you come here, of all places?_

_Have you seen Ron?_

In her imagination, he was always pleasant. Polite and cultured, like she pictured his upbringing. He wasn’t nasty and rude like she remembered him being in school. He didn’t scowl. His face would look so different if he were smiling pleasantly instead of sneering.

While he slept on, Mrs. Granger cut his hair for him again, this time making it short so that it no longer tangled beneath his head. It made him look a little younger, more like his old self. There was no need really to shave him; his beard was coming in thin and light. It never grew past a centimeter or so.

Being dentists, her parents were overly concerned with his teeth, which Hermione found distasteful. They religiously cleaned them and checked them for damage. She hated seeing them fuss around in his open mouth while he slept so she often left the room for that. Gross. Her father was primarily charged with Draco’s hygiene and toilet, and Hermione was incredibly grateful for that. She couldn’t bear the thought of bathing him or changing him, like an infant.

On the occasions that her parents slept and she stayed up with the boy, she found herself studying his face. It often made her recall unpleasant classes with him. Potions, mostly. He’d always looked so sulky, especially when her potion turned out better than his. He was her only real competition, after all. On the evening before he woke up, she sat squinting at his chin. Its stubble was golden, often white-blond in areas. However, on closer inspection, and especially when the light caught it the right way, she discovered that those lighter hairs were not in fact blond, but gray. They blended in very well and she had to look hard to see them. That rather surprised her. A twenty-year-old boy going gray already? It saddened her to think of all he’d endured to make him prematurely gray.

On the day that would have marked two weeks, Draco opened his eyes. Hermione hadn’t been with him at that exact moment. She’d been downstairs refilling his glass of water. When she returned, she saw him gazing sleepily out the window next to his bed. The water glass almost fell from her hand. What a mess that would have made.

“Mal—Malfoy!”

He seemed not to have heard her, for he continued to blink at the window. Her heart began to flutter inside her chest. He was awake!

“Malfoy,” she said again softly, setting his water glass down. She sat on the bed next to him. “Malfoy?”

Finally, he turned to face her. His eyes squeezed shut, opened again, tried to focus. He looked at her for a long time without saying anything, studying her, almost as if he’d never seen her before. His brow furrowed.

“Malfoy? Draco?”

He blinked.

“I—how do you feel?”

Blink.

Hermione bit her lip. Was he dreaming, only wide awake? He didn’t even seem to register who she was. Merlin forbid his memory had been affected so…

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to get you something? You do know me, right? Granger. You’re in my house, remember? Well, it’s my great aunt’s technically.”

Draco closed his eyes and sighed.

“You do remember, don’t you?” she asked again, feeling a little desperate.

He nodded.

“Oh, thank Merlin… if I thought I’d have to bring you up to speed now, I’d throw myself from that window. Blimey.”

_If he remembers who you are and where he is, then he most certainly remembers you beating the snot out of him._

Her face reddened, knowing Nagging Hermione was right as ever. However, if he did remember that fiasco, he gave no indication of it.

“Malfoy, your wounds are looking better. The infection is gone. You’ll need to tell me the rest of the spell, though. They’re cleaner, but they still won’t close.”

The Slytherin boy opened his mouth to speak but suddenly seized up and grimaced. His hand flew to his throat. He coughed, and it was bloody.

Hermione’s spirits sank like a lead weight. No, no it couldn’t be…

He growled low in his throat, sounding pained, and turned away from her. “Malfoy, how are you still cursed? You—you were speaking before. I thought you’d been cured.” Draco coughed again, more bloody spit flew. “Malfoy!” she cried, putting her hands back on his shoulders to try and soothe him, to keep him from coming out of the bed. “All right, I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Please don’t try to speak again. I’m sorry. Oh, shite, you’ve got to be kidding me. This is the worst. The worst! No, no, no, no...“

She watched him curl into a fetal position away from her and thought ‘How can it be? It’s just not fair…’

Hermione rubbed her forehead, trying not to cry. So they were back to square one in a way, but at least now that he was awake, he could write the spell for her and she could learn it from scratch. It would be difficult. Merlin be damned, what a setback.

Light footsteps on the stairs indicated her mother making ready to enter the room. Hermione composed her face, banishing the dread that now threatened to take her over. She forced a smile. “He’s awake, Mum.”

Mrs. Granger’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, wonderful! Bless him… I’ll tell your father. And make him something to eat. The boy must eat!” She flew down the stairs to spread the joyous news to her husband, leaving Hermione to slip back into a sad stupor.

Minutes later, the matron re-entered the room carrying a tray with a steaming bowl on it. “Just broth,” she told her daughter. “He needs gentle food on his stomach.” Mrs. Granger sat in her usual wooden chair and draped a napkin over Draco’s chest. “Come, dear. Will you eat, then? You must be hungry.”

Draco kept his back turned to her. Mrs. Granger frowned. “Is he not feeling well?”

“I suppose not,” said Hermione dully. “Probably just tired.”

Her mother passed the spoon to her. “Did you want to give it a try?”

Ugh, enough. Hermione pushed her mother’s hand away and stood up. “Feeling sick,” she mumbled before quickly exiting the room. Mrs. Granger watched her go, looking perplexed.

Hermione stumbled down the stairs with her hand over her mouth. She’d only said she’d be ill so her mother wouldn’t question her, but her stomach did feel tied up in awful knots. Air. She needed air.

She pushed open the back door and plodded into the garden. The air was still as ever, and cold, but anything was better than that stifling sick room. Hermione felt like the world was crashing down on her shoulders. How wretched to feel like what little progress they’d made had been reversed.

In the corner of the back garden, there was a mossy stone bench. Hermione plunked herself down on it and stared miserably at the dry fountain and crumbled rocks before her. The entire garden was dry and dead. Bleak, brown and gray. The sky overhead was gray, too.

Miserable.

She put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?” she whispered. “What am I going to do now?”

There were two Hermiones with her at that moment. Young, Naive Hermione and Nagging Hermione.

 _It’ll turn out all right. He can always write! And he’s already looking better, you know_ , said Naive Hermione. She was almost always sickeningly positive.

 _Maybe Dad was right. Shunt Malfoy out of here. Let the authorities take care of him. He’s not your problem_. Nagging Hermione was just the opposite; a realist.

“I can’t just abandon him,” said Real Hermione. “He could still die.”

_Like I said, not our problem._

_It IS our problem! Malfoy is a human being, just like we are. What would Dumbledore do?_

Hermione sighed. It was always frustrating when her personalities warred with one another. “Maybe I should just leave. I’m so sick to death of this place… I could tear my hair out, I hate it so much.” She watched her breath condense in the cold air. “I hate everything right now.”

_But Mum and Dad need you! How would they get by without you?_

Annoyed, Hermione rose from the bench to rest her arms on the high brick wall that enclosed the garden. She peered out onto the moors and pouted.

The wind was fierce that day and kicked up everything around, while inside the garden, and her wards, all was still. She frowned, wondering why she couldn't be that way as well. Chaos all around, but calm and still within. Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself to be calm and still. She thought of things that brought her peace and calm; the quiet corners of the library at Hogwarts, summer warmth, green clover, new parchment, a perfect potion simmering away in her cauldron…

‘I’m no good to anyone if I’m such a mess,’ she thought. ‘Like it or not, I’m the backbone of this operation. They all need me.’

It was hard, and life sucked, but it was a reality she could not escape from. Hermione would just have to be a grown witch and accept her fate. She was tied to all of them, as they were to her.

She chose to hide in the garden a while longer, staring out over the moors. Far away, down a distant road that looked like a tiny, silver ribbon twisting against the brown heather, she saw the headlights of some vehicle or other. That didn’t much surprise her; Muggles lived here and there, even in these barren wastes. They wouldn’t be able to see her or the cottage, even if they drove right past it. A small part of her wished they would see, then maybe she could hitch a ride with them and leave that little cottage-prison for good…

Hermione shook the thoughts from her head. Such an attitude simply wouldn’t do. She had an obligation to all the souls in that cottage, whether she liked it or not.

She stepped gingerly down from the wall and made her way through the withered garden and back to the house. Once inside, she was suddenly very glad for the warmth and realized she’d been quite cold out in that garden. Her hands were red and icy. Strange how she’d hardly even noticed at the time. She passed a mirror in the hall and saw her nose was red as a beacon.

She walked past the kitchen and saw her father putting a kettle on. She watched him for a moment, not yet quite ready to go back up to the sick room. He looked up when the floorboards beneath her feet complained.

“Mione,” he said. “Care for a cuppa?”

“Yes, please,” Hermione replied. She sat down at the table in the adjacent dining room and patiently waited for her father to bring the cups and saucers and kettle.

He poured her a cup once the whistle sounded. She watched the steam rise to the ceiling. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Course.” Mr. Granger sat down before her and smiled. “Been a while since I had afternoon tea with my girl.”

She smiled as sincerely as she could. “Sorry about that.”

“I know you’ve had to tend to the boy. You’ve been wonderful. He seems leagues better.”

Hermione felt herself color. She hadn’t ever expected praise for all her efforts. It felt good to hear.

Dad sipped on his tea. “Out of bloody cream,” he muttered.

“I can go to town soon and get some.”

“Couldn’t you…” her father began, looking down at his cup. “Couldn’t you take one of us with you this time?”

Hermione sat back, frowning. “You know I can’t.”

“Can’t you? Not even somewhere close? I know you can do… side-along, or whatever you call it. I can help, you know. Please.”

The young girl bit her lip and consisted her father. His face was drawn, worn. She noticed the extra gray in his hair that hadn’t been there when they first fled to the Skye cottage. He looked tired, trapped. Just like her.

Surely her parents suffered just as she did. The confinement, the loneliness, the tediousness of every day, same as the day before it. And at least she got to leave sometimes. They never did. Talk about stir crazy. And they’d held up so gracefully under all the strain. Not like she had…

Hermione felt ashamed again for all her unpredictable and explosive behavior. Her parents always ended up cleaning her messes. She nodded.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll think of something.”

Mr. Granger brightened visibly. “Good form, darling. I’ll help in any way I can.” He grinned and took to looking out the window.

What was he daydreaming of, Hermione wondered? Seeing fresh faces, eating at a pizzeria perhaps? Picking up his own newspaper?

Indeed, her poor parents had suffered silently right beside her and she’d hardly ever given it an ounce of thought. More shame descended on her, suddenly robbing her of her thirst for tea. She stood. “I’ll help Mum upstairs.”

Her father nodded in the affirmative, still gazing dreamily out the window.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Granger spoonfed the broth to Draco, patiently like any mother would. He drank it as best he could. He still seemed so tired. Poor lad.

When he’d finished, Mrs. Granger dabbed his chin with a napkin and tucked his blankets under him. The boy needed rest, surely. As his eyes closed and he settled into sleep, she pulled out her thermometer and placed it between his lips. She waited, pulled it back out and smiled; no more fever, to be sure. She donned her trusty stethoscope to have a listen to his insides. His heart was beating away at a healthy pace. No fluid sounds in his lungs. Excellent. She moved the stethoscope up to his neck and listened. As it has sounded when first she listened there, his heartbeat changed. It was more erratic. Skittery. It was hard to pin down a rhythm.

Mrs. Granger frowned and pulled away. Damn stethoscope must be broken. She placed fingers on his pulse and felt only his steady heartbeat. Boy must have some congenital heart issues. Only proper machines would be able to sort that out. The dentist sighed and sat back. Hermione might know what to do.

* * *

 

Said Gryffindor was hovering outside Draco’s sickroom, watching her mother care for him. She noticed that Mrs. Granger had even combed his hair.

Hermione put on a pleasant smile and stepped into the room. “Thank you, Mum,” she said.

Mrs. Granger turned a startled expression on her daughter, which for a moment surprised Hermione. But then she smiled faintly. “I got him to eat all the broth.”

“Good. He needs his strength.”

“Perhaps he can have a few crisps later. Something plain. Are you feeling better?”

Hermione didn’t know what her mother was talking about at first. Then, she remembered; she’d left the room earlier feigning illness. She smiled again. “Fine.”

Mrs. Granger turned back to Draco and smoothed his hair. “He seems better. You’re making progress on healing his nastier wounds?”

“Getting there,” she replied. “The more rested he is, the more information I’ll be able to get out of him.”

Her mother nodded. “Right then. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Why?”

“Just going to clean this dish,” said Mrs. Granger. Then she winked.

Hermione watched her go with raised eyebrows. ‘What in the world is she on about?’

The young girl turned her attention to Draco, fussing over the blankets and making sure they were tucked under properly to keep him warm. She tidied up around the bed, wondering at the odd behavior of her parents. They seemed to go out of their way to leave her alone while she tended Draco. Were they trying to give her “private time” with him?

“Ew,” she muttered.

As if he sensed her presence, Draco stirred and his eyelids fluttered. He glared blearily at her, saying nothing.

“Go back to sleep,” she ordered. “Rest up.”

He was silent. Still blinking sleepily.

She sat next to him, looking sad. “Did I dream it? Can you really still not speak?”

Draco shook his head slowly.

“Still cursed.”

An affirmative nod.

Hermione began to worry the hem of her shirt with her fingers.

“It hurts?” Another nod. “That’s dreadful. I’m sorry.” He gave no answer, so she turned to look at him. “What curse did they put you under? I’ve never even heard of dark magic that can mute you and cause you pain like that.”

Draco rolled his eyes, as if dark magic couldn’t possibly exist if Hermione Granger didn’t know about it.

“Don’t pull faces at me, I’m serious. Oh, if only I could visit the Hogwarts library. I’d find an answer for you, I’m sure of it.” She put her head in her hands. Her gaze fell on the notebook and pen still sitting beside the bed. “Can you write it? If you write it, I can at least do my best to research it. Are you well enough to write?”

He frowned at her. His eyes looked almost… annoyed. As if Hermione were failing to comprehend him.

“Well what, then? Don’t get shirty with me for not understanding you when you can’t even speak to me!” Hermione threw her hands up. “I can’t read minds!”

He only shook his head again and took up staring at the opposite wall.

“You can’t just shut me out. I know you’re tired, but how are we to make headway if you don’t help me? Meet me halfway. Hell, I’ll meet you even more than halfway, but I can’t do it all.” She pulled the notebook into her lap, fixing him a hard stare.

Draco blinked down at her lap. After staring for a few silent moments, he sighed and held out his hand.

“Thank you,” she breathed, sitting up to help him get situated. “You can use this, right?”

He took the ballpoint and nodded absently. It clicked home.

Hermione sat and watched him for some time. It was hard to make out what he was writing. It looked mostly like thick, black block script from where she sat. That perplexed her. His handwriting from before had been like calligraphy. It was obviously hard on him; beads of sweat stood out on his brow.

He sighed, finally, and tossed the ballpoint on the sheets next to him. Hermione stared.

It wasn’t writing at all. It looked to be a scribbled, black blob. “What?” 

When she took the notebook from him and studied it closely, she saw that’d he’d drawn something instead of writing a spell. It was… skinny, spiky, with what appeared to be…

Hermione’s mouth twisted in disgust. “ _Legs!?_ ”

It was some creature, some awful-looking thing with black, spiky legs and teeth.

“What in God’s name—” Hermione dropped the notebook as if it had burned her. “You’re joking. You can’t be serious. What— _what is that!?_ ”

Draco just lay there staring blankly at her.

“Malfoy,” she said hoarsely, “what exactly does this mean? Were you attacked by something? Is this some dark creature?”

The blond closed his eyes. Bloody hell, but he seemed tired. He lifted a pale hand and scratched at his neck.

“Yes, I see, it attacked you then? Something… bit or injured you somehow?” She leaned forward to study his neck better; perhaps she’d missed something in the cuts that had been there. He looked up to the ceiling as if trying to steel himself against something. Then, he tried to speak.

Hermione grimaced as Draco gasped and clutched at his neck. More blood leaked from his mouth. But this time, she stared through his hooked fingers at the flesh of his neck:

It moved.

She shrieked and shoved herself backward from the bed. Draco’s neck quivered and pulsed beneath his skin. Something… _something was moving around in there._

“Dr—Draco!” she gasped. “What? How?”

He was wiping the blood from his mouth and Hermione watched in horror.

“My god. My god, Malfoy...what!?”

The boy’s breath came quickly. He was even paler than before, the sweat soaking his blond hair. He turned away from Hermione to curl into his pillow.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! It’s, it’s hurting you from the inside, isn’t it? Merlin’s beard, is it, like, attached to you in there? Like some kind of... _barnacle_?”

She stared in horror down at the notebook that had fallen to the floor. That… _thing_ he’d drawn. It definitely had legs… a lot of them. Legs that hooked like claws at the end. She pictured it inside his neck, curled around his larynx with claws sunk in like a parasite.

“Oh… shite. That’s why you bleed. It’s cutting into you. Is it every time you try to talk? That’s what it does?”

Then, it hit her: the lobalug toxin, the delirium.

“Mother of Merlin, that’s why. That’s why you could speak and now you can’t. The lobalug— it paralyzed that thing, or put it under, something… because it’s not a curse you’re under, it’s a _living_ _thing_!”

She could feel herself starting to quake with terror. No way could she give him more poison. Not only did she run out, but under the influence of lobalug, he would be completely delirious. Useless to her and to himself.

Hermione rubbed her cheeks, trying not to groan aloud in agony. “What a cocked-up situation. Bloody hell, what are we going to do now? How the hell do you get rid of something like that?”

Soft snores drifted over the din of Hermione’s low whining. Draco had fallen back asleep. Well, no wonder; he was still sick and exhausted. Hermione had never felt so disappointed and powerless in her life. She was a talented witch, but she knew next to nothing about dark creatures. Her eyes fixed on the thin smear of blood now drying on his bottom lip.

‘What now? Just what now?’

“Mione?”

Her mother was at the door, looking worried. She wrung a dry dish towel between her hands. “Are you alright?”

Hermione clapped her hands to her face. “No. I’m not alright. I’m not alright! Mum—everything is impossibly complicated! How in the world am I to help Malfoy when I don’t even understand what’s wrong with him!?” She then burst into tears.

Her mother’s jaw dropped. “Hermione!”

The girl threw herself into her mother’s arms and wept. “I’m so lost,” she sobbed. “I don’t know anything!”

“My poor darling,” said Mrs. Granger, patting her back and smoothing her hair. “You need to rest as well. I know you’re over stressed. We all are. Why don’t you go to bed early, eh? I can make you something to eat before you retire?”

“I’m not hungry!” Hermione wailed.

“All right.” Her mother pulled away to make Hermione stand up straight. “Dry your eyes, love. Go lie down. I’ll take care of the boy. I’ll send Dad in with some hot tea.”

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Hermione sniffled. “I’m trying really hard to be brave. It just feels so hopeless sometimes.”

Her mother smiled. “Yes. It is. But we’ve got no choice. We either move forward or we die. That’s the name of the game nowadays, darling, if what you say about the outside world is true. We keep on for the sake of others.” She wicked a tear away with her thumb. “Right?”

Hermione sniffled again. She could feel her nose running unattractively as she met her mother’s eyes. Keeping on for others? Yes, that was right. Mum was right. That was the mettle of a true Gryffindor, after all; self sacrifice.

She managed a weak smile. “Yes, Mum.”

“Good girl.” She patted her daughter’s cheek. “Now go to your rest. Mr. Malfoy will be fine with me.”

Once in her room, Hermione found that sleep was the last thing on her mind. She paced her floor. She stared out the window. She straightened the little makeshift potions station she had set up in her room. Her mind was on none of it, really. All she saw were horrible black creatures feasting on the innards of witches and wizards.

Later, as she brushed her teeth and gazed glumly at her reflection, it occurred to her that Draco may very well be mad.

‘But no. I saw that thing. I felt it. Something is moving around inside him.’

What to do then against a suspected dark creature? It was one she'd never heard of, not that the magical creatures classes she’d taken or books she’d read had given her much insight. Her focus had always been more on potions and arithmancy.

Damn. If only Remus still lived. He would know about that sort of thing.

“Well,” she said to herself, “I suppose I could always find a book.”

Her father stopped by the room to leave her a tray of tea on her mother’s orders. Hermione stared at the steam rising from the cup for a long time before she reached for it.

Finally, after what seemed like hours pacing her room in a daze, she settled into her bed and burrowed beneath the covers. She could hear low murmurs from the next room, knew both her parents to be there now tending to their invalid. That was fine. Malfoy would be fine... For the time being, anyway. Of course, she would depart as soon as she could with her father for the cities to glean what info she could for the boy. But, for that night, he would live, sleeping peacefully and gathering his strength, so long as he wasn’t made to speak.

However, Hermione’s brow furrowed as she pondered on that. That thing living in him… from where did it draw its energy? What did it eat? How did it eliminate? Surely it had to be sapping strength from Draco even as he lay resting. And how little strength he had for himself! Could that thing be slowly poisoning him, like a foul parasite?

She shuddered, resolving to put it from her mind until morning.

That didn’t happen, of course, for she dreamed of it. She dreamt that the black things living inside Draco erupted from his body and crawled after her in her room. They scuttled across her skin and cut their way inside of her, hissing and chittering all the while.

* * *

 

Hermione ultimately decided to visit Inverness again. It had a small magical community tucked away inside it, not unlike the hidden Diagon Alley, though it was much smaller. What it did feature that was larger than any that could be found in Diagon Alley was a bookstore; one full of older tomes that would most certainly be of use to her. Hermione found that, when searching for “unique” literature, the older books tended to be best to read. Folks back then embraced the less… _scientific_ things much more often. And if there were, in fact, some unknown creature residing inside Malfoy, an old book about mythical magical creatures would be a good bet.

Her father was giddy as a schoolboy about being able to go abroad with Hermione. His cheeks had a flush to them that she hadn’t seen in a long time. Mum was excited for him, too. “Don’t forget my magazines!” she said as she kissed his smiling face.

“Exciting, this,” Dad said merrily as he took his daughter’s hand. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “Whatever you say. Here, wear this. I want to be able to spot you in case there’s a crowd.” She tossed a bright red knit cap with a garish little pompom on top. “Don’t pull a face, it’ll keep that bald head warm at any rate.”

Hermione couldn’t help but grin when he winked at her. She took his much bigger hand in hers, gave it a squeeze and the pair disappeared off the crumbling steps of the cottage with a loud CRACK!

They apparated into a dirty alley. People passed on the street outside, not noticing them. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Stick by me for now, Dad.” The older man obliged, following her through the alley and out onto the street. She kept her head down and so did he, heading straight for Old Perth, off of which was housed the wizarding district.

Getting into the wizarding alley wasn’t difficult; in fact, much easier than Diagon Alley. All one had to do was go through a decrepit-looking door with a faded sign that said NO ENTRY. It opened onto lovely, but quiet streets. The sun was trying its best to peek through the dismal clouds above, casting weak, watery sunlight over their heads as they walked. She could see her father out of her peripheral vision, looking about with wondering eyes, like a tourist. She suppressed another smile.

The huge bookstore wasn’t hard to find; its facade was bright blue and gold brick. Hermione paused outside. “Here’s my stop. Poke around the shops if you’d like, but try to look inconspicuous.”

  
Granger Senior could only shrug. “I’ll do my best, love.” He turned to eye an apothecary across the street and made for it. Hermione watched the bright red pom atop his knit cap bounce along with him. She was glad she’d cast charms over him, both to alter his appearance slightly and to create a bit of disillusionment, but he was still as tall and noticeable as ever. Oh well.

The bookstore was busier than normal, and Hermione expected it was because the holidays were coming up and people were getting their shopping out of the way. So, she walked in, unnoticed, and made for the research section.

There were many volumes on dark creatures. She took two that looked the most promising and began browsing for the alternative literature… books that her old friend Luna Lovegood would likely fawn over. Unfortunately, there weren’t many of those, but Hermione did come across a large, faded book that had what she suspected to be a Crumple-Horned Snorcack on the front. She wrinkled her nose.

‘I hate that I know that.’

Hermione pulled the book from the shelf and frowned down at it. Latin words were scrawled all over it. And she didn’t read Latin. She rolled her eyes, thinking how Draco would react to her bringing home fantasy books in dead languages. She was sure she had a few translation books at home, at any rate.

Her fingers trailed the spines of various books, some faded and worn and some brand new. ‘I’ll have to do a lot of work before I even present this information to Malfoy. He’s likely not in any state to research. As usual, it’s mostly on my shoulders.’ That both annoyed her and made her feel a certain twinge of nostalgia. She had always been the researching workhorse in the Golden Trio. Any time they were presented with a problem, and Merlin knew that was often, it was always she who would take up residence in the library to try to work things out. Not that she really minded, when it came right down to it. The library had always been her safe haven. Her quiet, happy place.

She imagined studying merfolk in Fourth Year to assist Harry with Malfoy sitting beside her. She’d never considered it before for obvious reasons, but Hermione realized that Malfoy would probably make an ideal study partner. He was quiet and serious more often than not and had always had high marks. He would have been infinitely better than the squirming, yawning and fidgeting Harry and Ron. Especially Ron. Malfoy probably holed himself up in the Slytherin dungeons just as she did in the library, books stacked around him, ink smeared on one cheek, distractedly scratching his bottom lip with a quill.

Hermione stood back from the bookshelf and stared wonderingly at the titles there _. Famous Witches and Wizards. Of Magick and Mystery. Epic Romances in the Wizarding World._ She’d wandered into an entirely new section and hadn’t even realized it in her daydreaming.

With a great sigh, she proceeded to the register. The clerk, a harried-looking young boy with bad skin, took her galleons and bagged her purchases without so much as looking her in the eye.

There was a little stand in the corner that offered hot chocolate and pastries. Quite tempting, she thought, so she stopped by it for a snack. As she lay down her money, she peered over the lower bookshelves and, to her astonishment, she saw the same kissing couple she’d seen in the Muggle part of the city weeks ago. They still looked to be enamored of each other, holding hands, the woman leaning her blonde head on her lover’s shoulder. Her face had that faraway, dreamy look to it that only lovers seemed to share. This time, the man’s neck was free of lipstick smudges.

Hermione felt fear wash over her. So, these two were obviously magical folk. And they’d seen her before, though in a different guise. What if they had sensed her magical presence before? Just who were they? Probably nobody, but…

She suddenly felt very uncomfortable where she was, like a million eyes were on her. Quite forgetting her appetite for croissants and chocolate, she left her purchases on the counter and walked stiffly out of the bookstore with her head down. Her cheeks blazed brightly, having nothing to do with the cold wind blowing outside. What an incredibly small world, and seemingly growing smaller by the day. What were the chances?

She wasn’t nearly careful enough. Bollocks.

Dimly, she noted that the streets seemed less populated than usual. Could it be because of dark wizards controlling the ministry again? Hermione hated to think that. Well, what could she do about it? Not a damn thing. Not without Harry.

Her father appeared to still be poking around in the apothecary. He was eyeing bottles of potions ingredients with a frown on his face.

“You won't find Gillette or Shower to Shower in here,” she whispered behind him.

He gave her a withering look. “I’m only having a look around.”

“I want to get out of here,” she hissed, eying the door. “I’m just not comfortable here at the moment. Let’s get out of Old Perth.”

He shrugged. “Lunch?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

He accompanied her out of the store. His eyes followed her stiff movements and he asked, “Are you all right?”

Hermione’s back of books knocked heavily against her knee. She winced, but tried to put on a pleasant face. “I’m good enough, Dad.”

Ah, finally. Hermione stepped through the old derelict doorway into the muggle part of the city. She took in the clearer air and felt immediately better. More people meant more anonymity. She could feel the anxiety slipping its cold fingers from her. And no one had followed.

“I could go for some fresh fish and chips,” said Granger Senior.

Hermione decided not to remind him that he wouldn’t likely find too many places with fresh fish at this time of year. “Sounds lovely,” she replied.

She took him back into the dark, dirty alley they’d first arrived in and she disapparated with him into a different part of the city, then another. Her paranoia, though somewhat dampened after leaving the Wizarding section of the city, still gnawed at her stomach. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought her dad looked a little green from all the magic and compression.

 _You can’t be too careful_ , her various Alter-Egos said in unison.

She and her father settled on a chain cafe that sold chips and sandwiches. Meals in hand, they sat in the corner with Hermione facing the front of the restaurant so she could see who walked into the store. With food finally in front of them, Hermione felt even more relaxed. How silly of her to have worried. Coincidence was coincidence, that was all. She really needed to relax.

“Find what you need?” asked her father.

Hermine shrugged, mouth half full of sandwich. “I think so.”

He nodded, thoughtfully chewing his food. “Air seems fresher here than it does at the cottage. Sounds mad, I know-- city air being clearer than the island air… but there, the air is a bit stale. Maybe it’s your spells that does it.”

The brunette scoffed. “Those stale spells keep us safe.”

“I’m not complaining dear,” replied Mr. Granger softly.

That humbled her a bit. Boy, but she could be an insensitive cow sometimes.  “I think you’re right; it does seem a little less… suffocating here. Perhaps it’s just being out-of-doors, as well. Seeing new faces, new walls.”

“Absolutely,” her father agreed. “I do wish your Mum could have come. Take her next time, will you?”

The kissing couple appeared again in her mind and she thought, ‘Next time? Merlin…’

“Was I hallucinating when I saw a little jar of powdered toad’s testicles in that shop back there?” Mr. Granger asked.

Hermione blinked at him, then laughed openly. “No, no I don’t believe you were. I’m sure they’re useful for something.” She giggled and sipped on her cola. “I’m sure at least one person in history has been snatched from the brink of death by a potion brewed with frog bollocks.”

Her father chuckled and changed tact. “And the boy? How are you coming with him?”

She shrugged again. “He still mostly sleeps. But I think I’ll be able to get some work done with him. I know we can’t keep him, like he’s a stray.”

He shook his head. “He’s fine where he is, honestly. It’s something to do, caring for a young person. I know it gives your mother a bit of purpose. I’ve noticed his complexion is somewhat better.”

Hermione sipped thoughtfully on her drink again. “Yes, a bit. Though he was always a pale, scrawny git. Well, maybe not scrawny in Seventh Year, and even then it was probably because...”

She shut her mouth. Yeah, Malfoy had been looking peaky those last two years at school. Paler than usual, thinner. Eyes always dark and haunted-looking. And no wonder; he had to live with Voldemort, and was likely always fearing that he’d be killed at any moment for some trivial thing. And his parents… they’d looked like hell, too. Even Narcissa’s beauty had been greatly dulled by the time Hermione had been taken prisoner in the mansion. Merlin, was that the last she’d seen of them? No, of course not; they had been in the crowd at the Battle.

Again, she wondered what had happened with them between then and the night Malfoy fell, literally, into their laps. He’d gotten on someone’s bad side, clearly enough, but…

“Mione?” asked her father, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Say again?”

“I asked why you weren’t friends in school. You and the boy. Was he a bully?”

Right, Malfoy. She sat back in her chair, frowning. “Yes, he was. Like most in his house. Or many, rather; I know not all Slytherins are nasty.”

“So he did bully you?”

“Well, Harry and Ron much more so than me, but yes. I did put him in his place more than once, though,” she added with a wry smile.

Father nodded. “I thought that might be why you’d beaten him so severely.”

Hermione felt the color return to her cheeks. _That_ episode of hers hadn’t been mentioned since it transpired. Couldn’t they all just consider it temporary insanity and leave it at that? “Well, it was part of it, to be sure.”

“And the other parts?”

‘Damn.’ The brunette bit her lip. She hadn’t told her parents about her suspicious on Draco, of how she figured he’d followed her.

“I—Well, I had found evidence that he had been following me. He had… something of mine, something I must have lost while out and about one day. And I think that’s how he came to discover where we were. Are.” She swallowed dryly. “I was angry.”

Mr. Granger looked troubled. “Followed you? You mean when you’d go to town? For supplies?”

“Yes.”

“And you think… you think he got to us because he had something of yours. I assume magic is responsible for that?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“What did he find of yours?”

She shook her head. “Some old hair piece. It was in the pocket of his shirt. I thought it lost.”

“Blimey.” Her father leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands. “You don’t think—?”

“I don’t know,” she interrupted, following his train of thought. “I don’t know if more will come. I don’t know if he told anyone how to get to us. I haven’t had a chance to ask. So, I don’t know.”

He scratched his beard and sighed. “D’you think we should relocate, then?”

“Where? Where would we go?”

Mr. Granger only answered with a helpless shrug and took to studying the crumbs on his plate.

Hermione was glad for the silence. She didn’t like the heavy turn the afternoon had taken. The weather outside, already gray and rather gloomy, now seemed even more so.

“I suppose we should get back,” she said after a time.

Her father only looked at her thoughtfully. “Be careful around him, darling,” he said eventually.

The young girl snorted. “I don’t think he’s much of a threat, Dad. He’s got no wand and is injured to boot.”

“I don’t mean that.” He took to wiping his hands with a napkin. “I mean be careful with… with yourself. You spend so much time alone with him.”

“Pardon?” Hermione scowled. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you suggesting he’d— that he’d take _liberties_ in his state, or—?”

“No!” the older man protested. “No, nothing like that. I only meant….” For once, it was his turn to flush red. “I mean _you_ don’t do that.”

Her jaw dropped practically onto her plate. “Are you— _are you mad!?_ ”

“I don’t mean physically, Hermione! Calm down. I only mean to guard your heart. Listen, we’re alone there. It’s just us. You and your parents and this young man. It’s isolated, I know it’s lonely. Just be careful you don’t get too attached the boy, all right? Like a… reverse Stockholm, if you will.”

She suddenly remembered Draco’s voice. His neck. Some horrid monster living inside him, wrapped around his windpipe like a leech. Her heart chilled.

Hermione pushed her chair back and stood up. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m just doing the fatherly thing.” He drained the rest of his beverage. “Crazier things have happened under similar conditions of stress. As I recall, you said people married, had babies and broke hearts willy nilly the last time this Dark Lord caused trouble. Just don’t you let the loneliness and isolation get to you in that way.” He gave her half a grin. “Unless, of course, you think the lad worth it.”

Hermione was so outraged by that comment that she walked, speechless, out of the restaurant with her father trailing behind her. He had that grin on. He still had it on when she led him to another empty alley, took his hand, and set her chin to disapparate. CRACK!

* * *

 

Inside the cottage, Mrs. Granger paused in her bandage rolling when she heard the telltale crack of her family returning. She peered out of the window and saw Hermione leading the way up the steps, face red, looking harried. Her husband looked rather pleased with himself. Mrs. Granger turned back to glance at the young boy, who still slept on. She had a feeling she knew what they’d talked about to make her daughter’s face that red. Returning to Malfoy’s side, she reached out to gingerly lay a hand on his forehead. It was cool. He slept on.

* * *

 

  
When it was around 6 o’clock, her mother announced dinner. It was a lovely shepherds pie. The meat and vegetables all came from the freezer, but Hermione found herself grateful for the familiar comfort food. She tucked in as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

“I’m glad to see your appetite back, love,” said her mother with a smile.

“A bit, I suppose,” she answered with a mouth half full of potatoes. “Travel does that to me, too.”

“I trust you found what you were looking for? Those books, I mean.”

‘We’ll see. I’ll start on them after I’m done eating.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I’m actually rather looking forward to it. I do love a good research session.”

“Take the boy up his dinner before you settle in for the night, will you?” asked her mother.

“‘Course,” Hermione answered immediately. She stood from the table and immediately gave her mother a suspicious look. The matron smiled placidly back at her. Her father, too, was watching her, the smile on his face just a little too practiced. “What?” she snapped.

“Nothing at all,” they answered in unison.

The brunette’s jaw dropped. “Just you both mind your own business. Stop romanticizing everything!” She huffed her way through making Draco’s plate and stormed up the stairs with her bag of books sling over her shoulder, not looking back at her parents.

She did pause briefly before entering Malfoy’s sick room. Gods be damned, she was overreacting to her father’s words. _And_ being overly sensitive to her mother’s looks. Now she was even more suspicious to them. Bollocks!

He was still asleep, which didn’t really surprise her. Hermione set his tray down, allowed the bag of books to slip to the floor and sat on the bed beside him, gently so as not to wake him. She stared long and hard at his sleeping face.

“Reverse Stockholm, eh?” she said aloud. Her eyes followed the curve of his face, still sharply defined and pale from his illness and trauma. There were dark pits beneath his eyes. His uneven stubble didn’t do much to better the haggard look. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Not bloody likely.”

She did take a moment to study the skin of his hands. It was pale, but pinker than it had been. His fingers were long and lean. How many times had she seen them wrapped around the base of a wand pointed at her? His fingernails were quite clean, no doubt thanks to her mother. She frowned. Surely “reverse stockholm” wasn’t the term for what her father suggested, namely a captor falling in love with his or her captive. It had to have some name of its own. She made a mental note to look it up later.

And his neck… Merlin, even though he was asleep and nothing stirred beneath his pale flesh, Hermione still felt her stomach turn just thinking about the creature that probably lived inside there. Gently, she reached forward and placed her hand on his neck, below his chin where Adam’s apple protruded slightly. His skin was warm. Calm. No movement aside from the faint pulse of his heart and his shallow breath. His blood pumping at her fingertips felt very assuring. She removed her hand after a time and placed it over his. Maybe everything really would be all right, after all.

The brunette wasn’t entirely surprised to see that Malfoy was awake when she glanced at his face. He was blinking at her sleepily, as if her simple presence had roused him from dreams. She offered no smile.

“All right?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Mum’s sent up dinner. Shepherds pie. Try to eat a bit, please.” She jerked her thumb at the floor where her newly purchased books lay. “Got a bit of light reading. I’ll go tend to that after you’ve eaten if you don’t mind. I’d rather just get to work.”

Another shrug. He shifted his head slightly on the pillow to try to catch a glimpse of the bag of books.

“Eat,” she insisted. She scooted his tray closer to him and picked up the fork. “I suppose I’ll have to feed you?”

He shook his head, looking irritated.

“Well, show me that you can at least manage a few bites so I’ll feel better about leaving you to your own devices. Mum wouldn’t like it if I weren’t properly caring for you.” She sat back and sighed. “I mean, not that I mind helping you out, but it’s honestly not something I’m in the mood for at the moment.”

His brow furrowed, which she took as a question.

“I don’t know. I— I’ve been abroad all day and I had to take Dad with me and it was just…. it was more stressful than I would have liked. Somehow being out and about with Dad was even more irksome than it is being shut up with him.” She pursed her lips and decided not to mention their conversation of her somehow falling into sickly sweet love with Draco.

Speaking of Draco, the blond was simply looking expectantly at her. She looked down and saw that her fingers had found their way back to his.

“Well,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Go ahead and eat some, will you? I’ve got work to do.”

He was still eyeing her in a way that made her uncomfortable. Almost like he was reading her thoughts. And what if he could? How did she know he hadn’t been trained as a discrete legilimens under the tutelage of Voldemort or any number of his followers?

“Eat,” she said again, more quietly this time.

He did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my absence. Life and pregnancy take their toll on me still.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Winter storms set in on the Isle of Skye in that late-November. Those within the Granger stronghold bore them well enough, being protected by Hermione’s strong magical wards. The rain still fell though, and heavily. Both parents worried about leaks and neither were terribly handy with fixing things.

Hermione didn’t mind the rain. She’d always loved it. It rained and rained endlessly up in the highlands where Hogwarts was hidden, so it always just reminded her of home and comfort.

Still, sometimes as she sat at reading, she would look out of the windows to see how the wind whipped the trees that weren’t contained within her wards. It was very like a hurricane; branches broke, the moors flooded. The sea was frothy and turbulent. When she wasn’t buried in reading on ancient spells and mythical creatures, she watched the rain and wind, transfixed.

It seemed to interest Draco, as well. When he wasn’t sleeping or being force-fed or being badgered by Hermione to write, he would lay on his side and look through the leaded glass, just watching the wind whip the trees around. He seemed lost in thought always.

Hermione almost never asked what was on his mind. No point, really. He couldn’t tell her and what little strength he had to write needed to go to useful things like spells. After a solid week, he’d finally written out the entirety of the Vulnera Sanentur. It took up an entire page. After he’d finished it, he had to sleep an additional two days before he could write out the instructions on how to perform it, pronunciations, hand movements, etc..

Of course she studied it religiously, though she could not practice it. Draco had written a brief warning for her not to utter a syllable of it until she’d perfected it in her mind. Saying it improperly apparently had disastrous consequences.

For days, she sat in Draco’s bed with him as he carefully demonstrated the hand movements, recommending that she perform it wandlessly for more effect. She held her hand over his, mirroring his movements. It was a slow process. He’d written that even the way she flexed her fingers had a bearing on the effect of the spell.

“How terribly fiddly,” she complained. “Leave it to Snape to concoct the most ridiculous and tiresome spell in the world.”

Draco gave her a look that said he didn’t like the crack about his old mentor, but of course he could say nothing against her.

On the afternoon of a particularly nasty storm, she sat abed with him and ate little orange slices out of a can, occasionally offering him some. He wrinkled his nose at them at first; obviously he’d never eaten a canned thing in his privileged life, precious, spoilt little brat that he was. Eventually, however, he accepted the fruit. Hermione plopped a slice in her mouth and grimaced as the wind finally took down a largish tree that grew just outside of her wards. “Blimey. What wretched weather.”

Draco chewed thoughtfully and watched along with her, silent as ever.

“It’s rather like that storm we had in Third Year, do you remember? Seems like it hit the castle just like it did here; so many trees and plants destroyed. Even the greenhouses looked worse for wear. Though, I think that may have been a Spring storm. Yes, I think I remember that correctly.”

Draco accepted another orange slice and said nothing.

“I miss school. I know that’s silly, because we’re grown now, but it was just such a happy place for me. It felt right, being there. Everything felt right. Even with all the terrible things happening to Harry and to everyone else, I was still so… at peace, there.” She gave him a sour look. “I felt okay with being Muggle-born, even with you reminding me how shameful it was every chance you could.”

The boy shrugged.

“It’s all right. I’m not chastising you. None of that matters now. Water under the bridge and all that.” She finished the last orange slice in the can. “Mum said we can’t do anything but move forward. So, I guess that’s what we do.” Placing the empty can on the bedside table, Hermione leaned back to stretch out her legs. They swept up past Malfoy’s head on his pillow and he sneered at the close proximity of her bare feet. “Shut up, they’re clean enough. And no, I don’t care that I haven’t shaved my legs. You can just deal with it.” She allowed her head to tilt back so she could stare up at the ceiling beams. “Come to think of it, I do believe I’m out of razors.”

With the weather being so horrid, there was no way she was willing to venture out of the house to get any much-needed supplies. Her mother had complained of being very low on rice, and tea was running out as well. How bothersome. Hermione stifled a yawn with her hand and drew her legs back beneath her. “All right. I have more reading to do, though I’ll bring it in here and sit with you. The rain on my window in my bedroom is so much louder than it is in here.”

Draco seemed not to care what she did with her time and made no reply.

From her bedroom, Hermione fetched the only book she hadn’t read yet from the Inverness Wizarding Bookstore; the one entirely in Latin. She had a small paperback translation dictionary to accompany it. No doubt working through all the old text would take weeks.

She resumed her spot on the bed beside her ward. “Here we are, my last book. Hold that.” she plopped the small dictionary on Draco’s stomach, ignoring the indignant huff he made, and cracked open the old book. The pages were yellow and smelled musty. Bloody hell, it was even handwritten. She groaned.

“This won’t be easy. I’m glad I at least excelled in Ancient Runes.” She thumbed through the old pages carefully. There were a few hand-inked illustrations in many colors. They were actually quite beautiful. The entire volume reminded her of the old bibles you’d see written by english friars from centuries before. She paused to appreciate an elaborate sketch of a yarrow plant. “I’m surprised something like this was for sale. Seems it belongs in a museum. I wonder who wrote it?” The spine had the same indecipherable Latin letters and she frowned. “No clue.”

Draco’s open hand stretching into her field of vision startled her. She looked up and he was shaking his hand at her expectantly, eyes tired but focused.

“What?” she asked. “You want this?” She passed the book to him. “It’s in Latin; don’t forget the dictionary.”

The blond rolled his eyes and batted the little paperback off his stomach and cracked open volume Hermione had given him. She scoffed, watching the dictionary tumble off the bed. “Rude! What, you can read Latin now as well?”

Malfoy nodded absently as his rifled through the pages, scanning everything he saw.

Hermione set her jaw and pouted. She didn’t like that he knew something she didn’t, not at all. She drew her knees up to her chest. “Fine then, you can just translate it. I’m tired of doing all the work.” He gave a yawn which she ignored. “That about figures. Bloody wizard-born, wealthy prat. Don’t roll your eyes. You let me know immediately if you see anything relevant to our case. For the love of Merlin, I wish you could just talk already… could read aloud to me. I bet that would sound lovely, listening to someone read Latin, even if I couldn’t understand it.” She sighed and took to staring glumly out at the rain again.

For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the pattering of raindrops on the leaden windows and the soft fluttering of pages turning in the old Latin book. It was rather a relief to be doing the idle sitting while someone else did the reading. Hermione made it a point to remain quiet and not fidget too much, for that had always annoyed her when her friends did it as she studied. ‘I don’t feel much like fidgeting anyway. This is right relaxing, to tell the truth…’ So, Hermione allowed herself to relax a bit and enjoy her down time. She crossed her arms over her knees and closed her eyes, listening to the rain. She didn’t sleep, wasn’t tired, but simply meditated quietly and listened to the calm around her. Water on glass, quiet breathing, soft creaks given by the old house as it settled.

“ _De profundis clamavi ad te Domine_ ,” she whispered at some point. It was the only snippet of Latin she knew, memorized from church recitations of her youth. It was quite appropriate for their situation, actually: Out of the depths, I cry to you O Lord.

Her eyes opened when Draco drew in a hiss of breath. He was looking at a page with his brows furrowed. Eventually, he looked over at her and tapped at her hand. _Look_ , he was saying. _Here_.

Hermione pulled the book from his hands. On the page before her was an illustration of what appeared to be some kind of many-legged serpent. It had a bulbous head and was rather fat. She puzzled over it. “It doesn’t look much like what you drew,” she said. “Maybe a little, with all the legs.”

Draco made a see-sawing motion with his hand. _So-so_. Then he pointed to a work inked in black below the drawing.

“Ex-exctincti,” she read aloud. “So this thing isn’t around anymore? If it ever was, that is. But this isn’t quite the thing you’ve said is cursing you. Eating you, basically. Am I interpreting that correctly? It just looks a lot like it?” Draco gave half a shrug. “Well… that’s something to go on, I guess. That’s… that’s not exactly what we need, but it’s close, and even that little bit of outdated information is helpful. So, maybe I need to find more literature on extinct magical creatures? I could do that on the next outing, whenever I manage it.” The brunette chewed her thumbnail. “Mum will probably want to come with me, damn it.”

No matter. She’d think on that later. She patted Draco on the shoulder, commending him on a job well done. “You can keep on with that, if you’d like. I want to practice your spell more. I think I’ve almost got it down pat.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Really, I’ve been up late working on it while you’ve slept. I’ll have it in no time.” She gave his bandaged wounds a cursory inspection. “There’s no more infection, but until I can get these wounds to knit, there’s no telling how long that will last. I’d hate to see you go downhill again. The best we can do for now is keep them clean, I guess.”

She watched his fingers edge toward the bandage on his forearm. He was frowning.

“Yes,” she said. “Have you seen that one lately? It looks--well…” Hermione had never mentioned his mutilated Dark Mark, never told him that, though his skin was long gone, the sickly flesh beneath still bore traces of Voldemort’s hold on him.

She made to help him remove the bandage but he nudged her hand away. He picked at the edges of the tape with his fingernails. Hermione bit her lip, anxious for him. Would he be frightened?

So very slowly, he peeled the bandage away. Hermione couldn’t help but grimace. It was still a red and angry-looking wound, though it did lack the distinct yellow-green bruising and infection it once had. It was just so gory. Dark, dark red, like beef that had been left out to leak and spoil. And just like she’d seen before, the center of it was so dark it was almost black. A bruise all the way down through his tissues; fat, muscle and all. It wouldn’t surprise her if one peeled away what little flesh he had left and the Mark was still there, printed on his bones. The ultimate permanent stamp of ownership.

Draco was looking at the wound with a strange expression. His eyes were round, brows furrowing and drawing closer together as he stared. His mouth was turning down at the corners as well.

“Malfoy,” she began.

He raised his arm to look at it more closely. Yes, now she could see his eyes glittering, just barely, in the corners.

Hermione saddened. “I’m sorry. I know it looks awful. They tried to strip you and it didn’t seem to work.”

His wide eyes meeting hers surprised her. He looked stunned.

“What? That’s the Mark still, isn’t it? I’m not imagining it? Malfoy, what’s the matter with you? Why are you looking at me like--”

Oh. It hit her then, and once she realized it, she had to fight the overwhelming urge to weep with him.

“You did it yourself.”

Draco, his jaw set, swallowed thickly and allowed his arm to drop to his side. He took to looking out the window again with wide, shiny eyes.

“Oh, Malfoy,” she said softly. “I just… I mean why?”

‘Stupid,’ she told herself. ‘He can’t tell you and you know the answer anyway. He’s a deserter, obviously. That’s why they nearly killed him. Or maybe he even saw the error of his ways and renounced the Death Eater way of life. What does it matter?’

Poor thing. Goodness, she mused, that would be the second time she’d referred to this boy, once her childhood tormentor and nemesis, as a ‘poor thing.’ What a turn the world had taken.

Hermione fetched fresh bandages from the bureau and, as tenderly as she could, redressed Draco’s wound. He allowed it.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, trying to soothe him. “I’m sorry all of this has happened to you. I think… well, once upon a time, I would have said you deserved it. So much has changed since then, however.” She finished the job with a few strips of nice, clean tape and continued to cradle his forearm. “I just don’t really know what to say now.”

If he was listening, he gave no indication of it, gray eyes still trained on the rain-soaked windows.

With a small sigh, Hermione slid from the bed and pulled his blankets back over him. “Perhaps you should rest now. I’ll-- come check on you again later.”

No answer.

Hermione left him like that, helpless as to what to what else to do. She figured she would retire to her reading again, maybe pore once again over a dark magic book, but Malfoy’s pitiful face haunted her.

* * *

 

After dinner, she decided on a hot bath. Perhaps that would clear her head and allow her to focus on research again. It only partially worked.

A shower would have been out of the question, as the curtain and its rings had been damaged beyond repair during her… tantrum. So, Hermione drew a bath and undressed while the tub filled up. It was a nice sound, loud enough to drown out the pattering rain, whose steady rhythm was starting to drive her mad. Her feet were cold on the stone floor. There was another floor mirror in here, not as nice as the one in her room and with a crack in the corner, but it still afforded her a good look at herself. Frankly, she spent very little time worrying over her appearance. As the water splashed away, she gave herself a good look-over.

Too skinny, first of all. She’d always been slender, but now she was even more so. The years of solitude and depression had done it, as well as her recent trials with Malfoy, at the Loch, and her hours spent at study. Her ribs showed plainly, with her pale skin stretched over them. And her hair, sweet Merlin, her hair was a hot mess, to say the least. She hadn’t cut it in years. She brushed it when she could, but she did none of the maintenance to it that she’d done before, when she cared about what the world saw in her. No deep conditioning treatments, no anti-frizz oil sprays, no maintenance trims, nothing. So, in addition to being as poofy and unruly as it had ever been, it was also nearly down to her backside, brushing against the dimples in her lower back. She was like a mermaid that had stuck her tail fin into a light socket.

The young girl smiled ruefully at her reflection and tied her long hair back into a messy bun atop her head. The rest of her was… okay. At least she didn’t have acne, or stretch marks, or whatever else.

Settling into the bath was very nearly a spiritual experience. It was so hot and delicious and felt wonderful on her cold skin. It had been ages since she’d had a nice bath. The lavender bath salts she’d added made it even nicer. Heaven, just about.

Hermione sighed contentedly as she dabbled her fingers in the water. She had so much to do, but this was a welcome respite. Everyone needed to unwind every now and again.

It occurred to her that at some point, Malfoy would be well enough to have his own baths instead of being sponge bathed in the bed. That both repulsed and amused her. Imagining her mother scrubbing his shoulders with a loofah while Malfoy pouted in the steamy water almost made her giggle aloud.

She hoped viciously that nothing ever happened to her parents. If they were gone, Hermione herself would be relegated to nursemaid.

‘Ha!’ she thought bitterly. ‘I’d sooner die.’ Imagine, Hermione Granger, almost-Head-Girl, Gryffindor goodygirl and part of the Golden Trio, kissing the booboos of Draco Malfoy. She certainly never imagined her life would take this turn.

Hermione studied her long, pale legs through the water. They were thin, like the rest of her, and a bit hairy. Shaving and general feminine upkeep had not exactly been Priority One in the past few years for her. It’s not like anyone else saw or touched them, so why bother? Shaving was tiresome, anyway. As for her other areas, well, she’d let those go by the wayside too. She often kept herself trimmed at the very least when she was regularly sleeping with Ron, but now she didn’t bother or see the point in bothering. Not that she was a terribly hirsute girl by any stretch of the imagination.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why worry about that now? I don’t care if Malfoy is displeased by my hairiness. He can kick rocks. I’m sure he hasn’t bothered with a single bit of ‘manscaping’ while in the ranks of Voldemort.’

That thought made her giggle again. He did seem a terribly vain fellow. She wondered whether or not he was a dandy in school. When she thought on it, his hair had never once looked out of place (even in battle or when attacked by Hippogriffs) and his robes had nary a wrinkle. Someone even told her he got regular manicures, which she confirmed one day when she had to partner with him in Potions class. She noticed his cuticles were even nicer than hers, and his fingernails looked suspiciously shiny and clean.

‘I bet it kills him,’ she thought, ‘being so unkempt.’

She settled back into the water and allowed memories to come to her; all of Malfoy and all at Hogwarts. There had been times, not many of course, for she truly didn’t pay him that much mind, that she’d seen him out and about and, before the knee-jerk reaction of ugh could come to her, she’d thought him good-looking. Just for a moment. It was hard to get past that oily, icky, cold feeling he induced in you, though, being as smarmy and evil as he was. However, she remembered being at Quidditch games, down in the pitch when the game had ended and everyone stood around hooting and cheering, and more than once she’d seen Malfoy across the field or near the entrances to the changing rooms, shirtless and sweaty with a few other members of his team. Well, she was a girl and, bookish as she may have seemed, she did notice boys. Oliver Wood had especially caught her eye in her early years at school. She’d seen him, too, in his bare Gryffindor glory, bare-chested and shiny with exertion in the late afternoon sun. Of course, she was around to watch Harry practice and not truly to ogle at the other boys, but it was certainly a pleasant distraction.

Anyway, in fifth year, Malfoy had stripped down after a game, even though it was cold out and he hadn’t played long. Maybe he just liked being exposed? He was so very pale and skinny, but that year was when she’d noticed he’d become leaner, broader in the ways boys broaden as they grow older, and hair as pale as the hair on his head caught her eye, particularly down his belly.

That may have been when she realized how fond she was of boys abdomens.

Voices from the hallway distracted her. She leaned her head against the side of the tub and listened; mother and father, talking about something. She couldn’t make out the words. Did they talk about her when they thought she couldn’t hear? Probably. Wasn’t much else to do except gossip about one another.

The steam and lavender were starting to take over her senses. Hermione relaxed back into the water and gazed out of the little bathroom window, daydreaming until the light faded from the sky.

* * *

 

The next morning, Hermione awoke with the Vulnera Sanentur and Draco’s morbid drawings on her mind. It did her no good to try to brush it off and sleep more, so she eventually got up to see how the boy was doing. As if he’d read her mind a room away, Malfoy was holding the notebook with the drawing of the hideous creature he claimed held his voice hostage.

Hermione held the sketch in her hands and shook her head. “I have nightmares about this thing, you know.”

Draco merely shrugged at her.

“I know. It’s worse for you, obviously. So what do we do about it? Any ideas?” Another shrug. Hermione sighed. “How do we get rid of it? Can it be killed? Can we even get to it without hurting you? My god, we’d have to literally cut your throat open. My parents aren’t skilled surgeons like that. Stitches are one thing, but that…”

Her eyes trailed down his neck, following the green and yellow bruising surrounding his stitches wounds. No, there was no way any of them were qualified to slice into somebody. And who even knew what they’d find if they tried?

“I don’t know, Malfoy. I just don’t know. I mean, if I can’t find literature on it and it’s not in the older texts, I just can’t see how I can figure what to do about it. I mean, we don’t even know what it is. I have no idea who I can ask--”

And then it hit her, just like that. Of course. Who else could she have possibly been considering? She had one good friend who had an affinity for questionable creatures. She stared at Draco with wide, dreamy eyes.

“Of course it’ll be Lovegood!” she whispered excitedly. “Wait here!” She dashed out of the room, ransacked her closet looking for the old notebook she’d kept during the war. Ron had told her so many things; surely she had written it down…

“Yes!” she cried. Her finger found Luna’s name rather quickly. “I knew it. I knew Ron had said something… she’s abroad, in hiding.” Draco was lying in bed looking at her like she’d gone mad whenever she rushed back into the room. “Malfoy, if I can get to Luna Lovegood then I may be able to help you. If anyone knows anything about bizarre creatures that shouldn’t exist, it’s her! Oh, brilliant, brilliant. I wish I would have thought of it earlier!” She hopped back into the bed beside him, ignoring his scowls of discomfort. Her eyes were still a bit sticky from sleep and she hadn’t even brushed her teeth yet, but now she was awake and on fire with her own brilliance. “I wrote it down ages ago, back when Ron and I-- well, Ron knew quite a bit about everything, somehow; said he had contacts. That was before he disappeared, of course.”

Draco was making a face at her. “What? Yes, I dated The Weasel! He was decent to me, so shut up. You git. Anyway, he’d heard that Luna and the man she married, that Scamander boy, had gone into hiding; some island off the African coast. _Funchal_ ,” she read to him. “Apparently it’s a Portuguese community. Of course, I’ve never been there. And it’s entirely likely she and the Scamander fellow aren’t even there, if they ever were…” Her face was flushed and her eyes were alight with excitement, as always happened when she had a stroke of genius. “If they knew… I mean if they knew, then bloody hell, they may very well be able to help you! Damn, if only we could locate Xenophilius, but that old coot sold us out to the Death Eaters and that was almost the end of us, once.” Her face immediately fell. “Oh bollocks, how am I supposed to get to some island in the Atlantic? What about Mum and Dad?”

Draco was still giving her that strange look. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes my mouth runs away from me when I’m excited. Maybe if you’re well enough, you can accompany me.” She frowned. “Of course, that still leaves the problem of Mum and Dad. Where are they to go? How would they fare without me?” She crossed her legs under her and pouted a bit. “Damn. We can’t all go. Can we?”

Draco rolled his eyes, as if she’d posed the question to him.

“I mean it. There’s… well, there’s so many what-ifs.” She looked up to see the Draco was staring at the bandages on his stomach, fingers picking at the tape that held them there. “I know. I know, we need to fix you up first. I need to focus on that right now.” She puffed out her cheeks. “But after… after that, let’s give going abroad some serious thought, okay?”

He only blinked at her.

‘Blimey,’ she thought as she looked on him. ‘Tomorrow. It will be tomorrow. I’ve just about perfected it.’

It would take a lot of energy. Hermione knew the complexity of the spell would drain both her and Draco. She wasn’t as strong a witch as she wished she were, not nearly as strong as Severus Snape had been. For years, she had underestimated just how powerful a wizard he had been. Sure, she always knew he was the best Potions master, probably in all of Britain. But to create such magic on his own, to craft spells like this with his own hands…

Hermione looked down at her hands. The boy had warned her that, if not performed correctly, some of the spell damage he’d endured may be transferred to her in some way. That was the nature of the magic; purely dark. Blood shed for blood shed.

She certainly didn’t want that.

That evening, after she’d taken one last lesson from Draco in proper Vulnera Sanentur hand movements, Hermione sat up in bed studying her notes. By then, she had the whole bloody thing memorized. All ten billion lines. Yes, she could say it in her sleep. Though, hopefully she didn’t actually do that; it would be terrible to wake up dead.

She giggled at her own ridiculous train of thought. ‘He’s been here for a month now, and finally I’ll be able to heal him properly.’ Her fingernail traced the edges of some of Draco’s gilt script. It was getting better; less shaky.

‘First thing tomorrow, then,’ she thought, and turned out the light.

* * *

 

The sun wasn’t even risen before Hermione was out of the bed, dressed and ready to do some serious magic. Didn’t matter if Draco were ready or not; she was alight with determination.

He was sitting up in his bed, waiting for her. If only he could speak. She’d give anything to hear him tell her not to bungle it all. He certainly looked to be thinking it.

“All right,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Here goes nothing.”

Draco tilted his head back to stare with wide eyes at the ceiling. He looked terrified.

“Please believe in me. I won’t be able to do this if we’re not both confident!” she pleaded. His hands were shaking and she almost reached out to grab them, but didn’t.

 _Merlin, give me strength_.

Hermione took a deep breath and held her hands over Draco’s sternum. Then, she whispered. Ancient words they were, woven together in the modern day by an exceptional wizard and given great power. Yes, truly it was ancient magic at work; magic from a time when witches and wizards used no wands, had no schools. Back before her ancestors’ ancestors, when magic was still fire and stone, air and water… blood, flesh and sacrifice.

Almost immediately, she felt the electricity coursing to her fingers. The hairs on her arms stood on end. The light in the room even became dimmer. But she couldn’t focus on any of that. She enunciated perfectly, the old magic rolling off her tongue in that practiced way that gave her great satisfaction. She was doing it. She was doing it.

Her eyes fixed on her hands, which glowed, then down to the boy’s bare chest. The red, angry rips in his flesh were glowing too.

Her left hand passed over the largest gash; her lips moved silently and she felt the tug between his flesh and her hand, like magnets were embedded there. And now it began to smell; not quite like burning flesh, but almost. Hot cauterization, purification.

She gasped loudly when hot fire burned a trail across her belly. It was like being scratched by an enormous flaming cat. She practically heard the skin ripping apart. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and kept chanting. She must not stop, she had to follow through with the spell of face disastrous consequences.

Draco was breathing heavily beneath her, but she couldn’t look at him. Her fingers traced the air over the wounds on his ribs and another searing line tore its way over her own chest. Hermione cried out, quietly as she could, and kept on.

 _He told you the spell could turn on you_.

She set her jaw and began whispering the last canto. Her hands continued to move, his wounds sealed shut with quiet hisses, and more seams of fire burned across her own skin. It hurt. Merlin, it hurt. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Hermione finally opened her eyes to see Malfoy staring at her, with eyes blazing silver. The last wound, one reaching down his pelvis, was knitting closed. How remarkable! Through the haze of her pain, she marveled at her own power.

With a quiet sob, she finished the spell, allowed her hands to rest gently against his hot skin. She felt the magnetic pull between them first intensify, feeling so strong as though it would pull her into him and make them one person, and then it was gone. Her fingers steamed. So did his newly healed flesh. Scars criss-crossed his chest, gleaming pink.

Suddenly, the painful burning all over her torso came back to her, and Hermione shrieked. She vaulted from the bed and tore into her bedroom, ripping off her jumper and staring in disbelief into the mirror.

Her chest, which had always been smooth and pale and perfect, was laced all over with pink scars. Burns like ribbons looping over her, ones that perfectly mirrored Draco’s. By god, yes, they were just like his. Hadn’t she practically memorized his tortured body by now? All the bandaging?

A low moan escaped her lips. ‘No, no, no…’

“No!” she cried at her reflection. “Damn it, why? Why?”

She shoved her standing mirror, ignoring how it cracked fantastically, and cursed Severus Snape with every curse she could think of. The power of the spell still coursed within her, making her nerves sing like wires. She was hot, angry, jubilant… a strange mix of emotions that rushed to her head that made her feel drunk. She held up her shaking hands and thought she might go mad.

“Draco!” she shouted, storming into his room. “I can’t… I just… look at me!” Hermione flung her arms out. “And you! Gods, you look—“

Well, he looked almost normal. A bit pink, and still with the dark, sunken eyes, but she’d healed him. It worked!

She staggered forward, almost giggling with the queer rush of emotions she felt. She wanted to scream at him, or to embrace him, or kiss him in exultation. Her hands found his skin again. “Does it hurt? It looks so much better, really it does! Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

He was looking at her, blushing a bit, and she realized she was still shirtless in only a flimsy bra, the dingy kind she’d had for years with a little, wilting bow sewn in the middle of it. She rolled her eyes. “Oh big effing deal, I’m a girl and I have tits, so sue me. I’m much more concerned about these!” She dragged her fingers across her new scars, hissing in pain. “Why in the bloody hell does it burn so bad!?” Her teeth ground together against the pain. “Damn you, I used all that murtlap on you.”

“Mione?”

The brunette hissed and turned to see her father standing in the doorway. He was frowning. “I heard raised voices, so I…” His eyes went from Draco to his daughter’s ill-clad form and he puffed out his cheeks. “Well, I’ll just be going then—“

He disappeared down the hallway like his shoes were on fire and Hermione shouted “We weren’t doing anything!”

Shite! She clasped her face in her hands. What was she, 16? Sure felt like it, busted by her folks being unseemly with a boy…

Soft exhalations from Draco’s bed made her whirl around in surprise. His chest was shaking and he was making shallow hiccuping sounds. That bastard was laughing at her.

“Oh, yes,” she said waspishly, “very funny. Ha ha.  
Laugh it up, Malfoy!”

She stormed from the room and left him to his giggling. But Hermione Granger wasn’t angry. Quite the opposite.

She’d been thrilled to see him smile.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I’d better crank out a chapter before this baby comes. Maybe I can even squeeze out one more before she makes her debut. ;-)


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